


Sins of the Father

by nani_punani



Series: malefica [1]
Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Intersex Loki (Marvel), Jealous Modi, King Thor, Loki and Thor Are Not Related, M/M, Mistress Loki, Possessive Behavior, Second generation kind of thing, Thor is utterly devoted to Loki, Witch Loki
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2020-10-24 04:48:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 33
Words: 78,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20700197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nani_punani/pseuds/nani_punani
Summary: Modi has everything in life except the love of his father.





	1. Everything

Modi is born lacking nothing.

The first born son of King Thor and Queen Sif, Modi, is to everyone, a gift from the Gods. For his first birthday, diplomats from all nine realms come to pay the future king tribute. The dwarves of Svartalfheim forge him the best gifts. The light elves of Alfheim bless him with strength and fertility. The Vanir of Vanaheim perform an intricate ritual that they say will bring nothing but prosperity to his future. The fog-men of Nifleim give him a sword dipped in the waters of Hvergelmir, origin of all living things, guarded by the great dragon Nidhug. Furtr, the cousin and sworn enemy of Surtr, brings him a chain forged in the lava of Muspelheim. Jarnaxa, a friend of Thor’s from Jotunheim, brings Modi a stone from Mimir’s well of wisdom. The diplomats from Midgard give fairly ordinarily items, and therefore are greatly overshadowed. Finally, even Hel graces his party. Her gift is not giving anything at all.

It is the party of the millenium. No one has ever managed the feat of having peoples from all nine realms in the same place at once. It is fitting and a statement on Modi’s life that the party is his. It seems as if from that day on things will be placed in Modi’s hands before he even realizes he wants them.

Everything except Modi’s father.

Growing up Modi is loved by everyone. Handsome, charming, and heir to the throne, there is no reason not to. Love is just another material object he expects to have, like a toy in his hand or a spoonful of chocolate. He has been taught from a very young age that everything, seen and unseen, is already his. This has been conditioned into him by tutors who readily praise his work, by his mother who constantly spoils him, and by the attention of others who easily yield to his will.

His father, however, is a cold and distant star next to the planets that eagerly orbit around him. It’s not that Modi hates his father, or even particularly dislikes him. It’s quite the opposite in fact. Modi loves his father, is proud of the status and respectability he achieves, the things he’s accomplished. Who wouldn’t be proud of having a king as a father? Definitely not Modi.

But even though Modi loves his father, Modi also knows Thor’s feelings toward him are neutral at best. Thor, in particular, is not a very good father. He doesn’t do fatherly things, doesn’t listen to Modi recount his day, or talk about his friends, or play with Modi, or even train with Modi. He does not seem have to the time, nor the patience, nor the inclination to spend time with his first born son. But Modi doesn’t hold this against him, or even really care for that matter. Thor Odinson is a serious man just a he is a serious king, and though Modi looks up to his father, he does not believe him to be particularly enjoyable company. That’s what he has his mother for, and his million other friends, tutors, and in general adoring public. And of course there is the fact that Thor Odinson has the same attitude with everyone he comes across, no matter how close they are to him personally. You could be the Royal Mother, Queen Sif, most beautiful woman in all nine realms, and Thor would still treat you formally, as well as somewhat coldly. So Modi never took offense to it, and concluded that it was just the way his father was.

That is until Thrud.

Thrud was Modi’s older sister. Thrud herself had her fair share of adoring public, but she was also a girl, and not an heir, therefore she was dispensable and not as loved as Modi. But she was beautiful like Modi. Unlike Modi, she inherited mother’s hair, a deep russet, the color of burnt leaves in the fall, and eyes so golden even a dragon would be envious. When Thrud was eleven, and Modi was six, a visiting dwarf named Alvis from Svartalfheim became so ensnared by her beauty that he proposed marriage. Thrud only managed to escape the marriage because their father was able to best Alvis in a game of wits, answering all his questions until the sun rose, turning Alvis to stone. Modi had thought it was all rather anti-climactic. Thrud had asked if she could finally go to sleep.

Modi was not very close to Thrud. Besides the age gap, Thrud and Modi didn’t have any of the same interests, and their personalities were too alike for them to properly get along. Having everything, they were both very detached, rather cold individuals. Very few things interested them. Especially not each other. As a result, they rarely, if ever, spoke to each other. Thrud was his sister just as a fork was used for eating. You don’t think anything of the fork. You don’t care about the fork. You just know the fork as an undeniable eating utensil.

But this changed when Modi was ten, and Thrud fifteen. Thrud had approached him out of the blue after one of his tutoring sessions saying she wanted to talk. Modi had blinked in surprise. He frankly found nothing interesting about talking to his sister. He didn’t want to talk to her. So he lied instead.

“I can’t right now. I’m going to meet Bjorn and Iver on the training grounds.” Modi had replied smoothly.

But Thrud’s golden eyes hadn’t even blinked. “You’re lying. Come on. I have something better to show you.”

Modi felt something like annoyance settle into his skin. He didn’t like the way his sister had automatically caught him in his lie, and then just assumed he would want to go with her somewhere. But, that was the trouble with someone who had the same personality as you. You couldn’t hide anything from them because they already knew where to look.

But Modi was still just as assuming and stubborn as Thrud. He wasn’t about to budge. “Oh yeah? And what’s more interesting than my two best friends?”

Thrud looked at him as if he was stupid. “First of all, literally anything.” Modi rolled his eyes. “And second of all, what about father for that matter?”

That caught Modi’s attention. “What about father?”

“Don’t you want to find out why he doesn’t love us?”

Modi had raised his eyebrows at that. “But father _does_ love us. Remember that time he saved you from marrying Alvis? The dwarf from Svartalfheim?”

This time it was Thrud’s turn to roll her eyes. “He saved me because I’m his daughter, and it’s his duty to save me. He didn’t do it because he loved me.”

“And how is doing his duty not proof of his love? He did his duty because he _cared _about his duty.”

“What about paperwork, huh? That’s his duty too. Taking care of Asgard? You really think he loves doing paperwork? Loves every single person in Asgard?”

Modi thought of the time his father rode his horse through the city streets of Asgard, face steely and impervious, no matter the adoration and cheers from the crowd.

“Well, no but-“

“And do you remember what happened after he saved me from Alvis? Did he ask me if I was okay? Did he give me a hug, or say he was worried he was going to lose me?”

Thor hadn’t said anything after Alvis had turned to stone. He’d simply walked out of the throne room, probably straight for his chambers. Still, Modi scoffed.

“It’s not like you were even scared. You were bored the whole time, just like I was.”

Thrud shrugs. “Yeah, but it would’ve been nice to see he was worried. Mother sure was.”

Queen Sif had pulled Thrud into a great bear hug after Alvis turned to stone. She had been the only one crying.

Modi didn’t know what Thrud was expecting to hear. “That’s just how father is. It doesn’t mean he doesn’t love us. All fathers love their children.”

Thrud raised an eyebrow. “You’re my brother. Do you love me?”

Modi glanced vaguely out the window, wondering what Bjorn and Iver were doing. “Of course.”

Thrud, though Modi didn’t notice it, was not impressed with his answer. “So you would die for me?”

“Definitely.” Modi replied automatically, still only vaguely paying attention to the conversation.

“Because I wouldn’t die for you.” Was Thrud’s blunt response.

That caught Modi’s attention. He turned back to look at Thrud. “Well, that’s not nice.”

Thrud rolled her eyes. “You cannot seriously expect me to believe you’d die for me, Modi. You barely even know me. The only other time we talk is during meal time. You don’t love me, just like father doesn’t love us. Just because someone’s assigned a certain role in life doesn’t mean they have to love the person their role delegates to.”

The thing is, Modi had stopped questioning his father’s lack of interest in him a long time ago. If Thor Odinson could barely show any interest in his own wife, Queen Sif, the most beautiful woman in all the nine realms, frankly there was no one who could capture his interest. Some people could have everything in life and still not be satisfied. His father was one example. Modi was another.

Modi frowned at his sister. “What do you want me to say, Thrud?”

Thrud stared at him with those impenetrable gold eyes. “I don’t want you to _say_ anything. I just want to show you why he doesn’t love us.”

Thrud, like Modi, was used to getting what she wanted. Except that she was used to getting what she wanted for far longer than he was used to getting it, because she was older, and he was younger, and so he could already feel himself bending to her will. And he was a little curious.

Modi sighed, finally relenting. “Okay.” He’d replied, and Thrud smirked, and Modi glowered at her. “But this better be good.”

Thrud had only smiled in reply, something devious twinkling in the depths of her golden eyes, though it might’ve just been the light.

“Oh trust me, brother. It’ll be better than good.”


	2. The Apple of His Tree

“Where exactly are we going?” Modi asked his sister as they trampled in the dead forest outside Thrudheim.

“To see father,” was her only reply.

Modi looked at the forest, which had been decaying for centuries, dubiously.

“I doubt you’ll find him here. Father prefers to go hunting, in you know, an _actual_ forest.”

Thrud didn’t even bother to glance back at him. “Where do you keep a secret, Modi?”

Modi blinked. “I don’t. I don’t need to.”

“_Wrong_.” Came Thrud’s swift response. “You keep a secret where no one expects to find it. You really think any one would come out here to find something? You think our mother, Queen Sif, would ever expect father to be out here?”

Modi tries not to roll his eyes at Thrud’s dramatics. “Of course not, because he isn’t.”

“Wrong again, little brother.” Thrud says smugly. “Father comes out here every day. Sometimes he only comes at night, when he thinks everyone is sleeping, but other days, on a day of rest such as today, he will stay out all day on the pretext that he’s hunting.”

Modi didn’t know his sister to be a liar. She found no need to be. He stared at her suspiciously.

“How do you know?”

Thrud grimaces. “I was practicing my seidr when I accidentally killed one of Freya’s kittens. You know how she loves them. I knew this would be the best place to bury the body – it is the dead forest after all – but imagine my surprise when I caught father wandering around as well. I was curious why he was out here, so I started to follow him and then – well - you’re about to see it so it doesn’t matter anyway.”

Modi frowns. “You know mother banned you from practicing seidr-“ But Modi’s voice cuts off when suddenly there’s a clearing the woods and a two story stone house is made visible. Modi stares in surprise and is about to step forward when Thrud abruptly grabs his wrist.

Her eyes are narrowed. “The whole place is surrounded by wards. Cross over and you’ll trigger an intruder signal.”

Modi glares at his sister, annoyed. “Then how are we supposed to get in?”

“We let _him_ cross first.” Modi looks to where Thrud is pointing, and does a double take when he sees it’s his father coming into the clearing, dressed much more casually than Modi’s used to.

“You were right.” He replies dumbly.

Thrud smirks at Modi. “You haven’t even seen the half of it. Now, when father crosses, I’m going to perform some seidr so that the wards think it’s just one person entering, not three all at once, because that is a 100 times easier than trying to take these wards down, even just temporarily. But we have to go at the same time, got it, Modi?”

Modi nods vaguely, eyes still fixed on his father. “Got it.”

_What is he doing out here? What is he hiding?_

Thor enters the wards, and so do Thrud and Modi as well, staying far enough away that Thor doesn’t catch them. They wait a while after Thor has entered the house to enter as well. Thrud is right about to open the door when Modi grabs her wrist.

“Wait a second. How do you know he isn’t on the other side of that door? How do you know he isn’t sitting in the living quarters?”

Thrud’s lip twitches. Modi doesn’t like it. “Trust me, Modi. He isn’t downstairs. I’ve been here before, remember?”

“Okay.” Modi replies suspiciously, and Thrud opens the door.

The inside of the house isn’t very grand, and comparing it to Thrudheim, it certainly lacks a lot. But for what it lacks in copious wealth it makes up in warmth and atmosphere. It seems like a place with a lot of happy memories.

Thrud leads him through the hall to the stairs, where they slowly start the make their way up, but not before casting some seidr that makes them both invisible. When they reach the top, Thrud takes him to the first door on the right, which is wide open. Modi stares.

It’s his father but he isn’t alone. Thor Odinson is standing by a mirror, slowly undoing the laces on his shirt when someone else comes up behind him, wrapping their arms around his shoulders.

It’s a woman, but Modi can’t see her face, only the back of her profile. She has long black hair as dark as a raven’s wing that falls to her waist, the color a rarity in Asgard. She’s wearing a black robe as well, but from where it slips away Modi can see she’s wearing a white night gown below it. The woman reaches up on her tip toes to whisper something into his father’s ear, a corner of her smile evident, playful, when all of a sudden Thor laughs.

Modi can’t do anything but stare silently in shock. He has never heard his father laugh before. Has never even seen his father smile before, not so sincerely. But Modi knew a lot of old people who didn’t laugh. Who didn’t ever really smile. He just thought his father was one of them.

But apparently not. Because now his father has turned around to face this woman, and his face is as clear as day to them. Thor lifts his hands to cradle the woman’s face and there is something in his eyes that Modi has never seen before, something that, as the woman rests her cheek to his palm, can only be described in two words.

Complete adoration.

Like the way the people on the streets stare at his father, like the way diplomats and ambassadors do, like the scullery maids and kitchen cooks do, like the sun and the moon do, like his mother _does_-

All of those people, millions of people, who looked at him with complete devotion, and not once did he ever look back, not once did he ever look the same, not once has he ever reciprocated – and yet – for this one woman, this one woman in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of the dead forest and all the expired and rotten things and Freya’s murdered kitten – for this woman it is easy. Adoration comes to his father as easily as a twitch of his finger.

“I missed you so much, Loki.” His father whispers, and there is an honesty so sincere in his voice it almost hurts Modi to hear it.

The woman – Loki – laughs. “But you came to me the other night. How could you miss me already?”

Thor puts his forehead to Loki’s, eyes shuttering close, as if even the image of her is too much to bear. “I miss you every night. I miss you every day. I miss you every second that you’re not with me.”

Modi stares at the scene in entire disbelief. This can’t be his father. His father doesn’t miss people. His father doesn’t miss anyone. He doesn’t _need_ anyone.

“Oh yeah?” The woman says, and even though Modi can’t see her face, he can hear her voice, sleek as a fox. “Then show me how much you miss me.”

Thor’s eyes snap open and he growls – _growls_ – at Loki, immediately devouring her mouth with his, one hand reaching down to grab her ass, the other keeping her chin in place, digging into the skin there like a brand. He pushes her backwards as he does, until they both hit the bed, Thor beginning to trail down her body with his kisses, putting his mouth everywhere on her like he can’t get enough.

Modi can only stare stupidly. “But-But he’s never like that with mother.”

“And now we know why,” Thrud repsonds dryly.

Thor gets on his knees on the floor, while Loki is still sitting on the bed, and Modi can only blink in confusion.

“What is he doing?”

Thrud giggles beside him. “You’ll see.”

Now it’s Modi’s father who has their back to them, while the woman’s face is as clear as day. Modi stares at her somewhat transfixed. His father’s lover is nothing Modi has ever seen before. On Thrud’s eighth birthday, when Modi was three, Thrud was given a porcelain china doll as a gift. It was as white as the ivory columns of Thrudheim with fake glass eyes and skin that looked breakable. Sure enough, three weeks after receiving the gift, Thrud dropped the doll on accident and it shattered to pieces against the marble floor. Loki reminded Modi of that doll. She was very slender, and slight, and looked like she could be crushed in his father’s hands. Her face was also exotic. It was almost feline in it’s appearance, with elegant cheekbones set in a heart shaped face and eyes the color of emeralds Modi had only ever seen in Thrudheim’s treasuries.

Loki also had long, slender fingers which were currently tangled in his father’s hair as Thor kissed his way up from Loki’s feet. Modi was disgusted.

“Look at the way he’s debasing himself.” Modi hisses at his sister. “A King should never be on his knees in front on another person. And he should certainly never _kiss _another person’s _feet_.”

Besides him, Thrud rolls her eyes. “Father is not only a King, Modi, he’s a man as well.”

Modi glares at his sister. “What is that supposed to mean-“

But Modi has not even finished his sentence before he hears it – a desperate moan – and he turns back to see his father now kissing the inside of Loki’s moon pale thighs, until suddenly his head is down under her night gown, devouring the secret place between her legs, hands digging into the meat of her tiny hips, while Loki locks her ankles behind his father’s back, a deep flush on her pale cheeks as she forces his father’s head even deeper.

Loki’s eyes are closed, long spider web thin lashes kissing her cheeks, while her white nightgown is rucked up against her thighs. The whole scene looks like something out of the old dirty books in the library which had illustrations of past King Odin’s many orgies and affairs, people painted in a terrible and all consuming ecstasy. Modi has been subject to Thrudheim’s many parties before, whenever his father comes back from a great mission or hunt, has seen the crude carnality that often occurs at its peak, but this is not it. This is something deeply personal and privately intimate, the way his father is down on his knees like a worshipper to their God, the way Loki’s fingers are twisted in his father’s hair like she never wants to let go-

_This is why father doesn’t love us._

And then unexpectedly Loki, whose eyes have been closed this whole time under his father’s ministrations like the pleasure was too much to bear, snap open and stare directly into Modi’s, and the endless green of her gaze suddenly reminds Modi that in the realm of Midgard, mankind began with the devouring of a green apple, and that it was the beginning of sin.

Looking into Loki’s emerald gaze, Modi knows she is the apple.


	3. Vanity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG I haven't gotten to yalls comments yet but thank you so much for the love!!!
> 
> Hope you enjoy ;)

The first thing Modi does when they’re outside is throw up. He falls onto the ground, digging his fingers into the soil, trying to clear his head by breathing in the cool forest air.

“How could he do that? How could father do that our mother? Cheat on her with that-_that whore?”_

Thrud looks down at him, unsympathetic. “Calm down, Modi, every King has one.”

Modi snarls at her. “Did you see the same thing I saw? That woman had her legs wrapped around him like a bloody parasite! She was eating him _alive_.”

Thrud snorts inelegantly. “I don’t think she was the one doing the eating.”

Modi stares at his sister in amazement. “How are you not more upset at this? How are you so calm?”

Thrud’s eyes gaze coolly down at Modi. “Because I’m older than you. And because I get it. Father’s whore has to be the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my entire life. And I’ve been to almost all nine realms.”

Modi splutters. “How dare you-_How dare you desecrate our mother’s name like that!_ Queen _Sif_ is the most beautiful woman in all nine realms-!”

Thrud only laughs again. “Didn’t I already tell you, Modi? Just because she’s our mother doesn’t mean she’s the most beautiful woman in all nine realms. You don’t have to lie. I saw you watching her.”

Modi feels an ugly flush bloom on his cheeks. “It’s disgusting is what it is – it’s _wrong_.”

“Oh shut up, Modi.” Thrud snaps. “When you’re King I’m sure you’ll have dozens of whores – probably a whole wing of the _palace_ dedicated to them – and so will your sons, and your son’s sons, and the sons of those sons-“

“I will not!” Modi bites back indignantly. “I will treat my wife with the respect she is owed, as _Queen_ of _Asgard_-“

“You’ll treat her with respect?” Thrud laughs, a mean, ugly laugh. “You don’t even treat your own sister with respect and you’ve known me ever since you were born. How the _Hel_ are you going to respect a woman you barely even know? You have everything you want before you even ask for it." Thrud's eyes are flint. "You don’t respect anyone, Modi, you _demand_ respect.”

Modi lets out an incredulous laugh. “Are you serious right now? _I_ have everything I want before I even ask for it? You’re acting like you don’t!

Thrud turns around in a fury to face him, the gold of her eyes scalding.

“_I don’t have the throne.”_

Modi flinches back in surprise at the heat of her tone. He stares in utter shock at Thrud before she finally flushes and looks away.

“Yeah,” he replies tentatively, “but you’re a girl.”

Thrud throws her arms in the air, exasperated. “So what? Just because I’m a girl that means I can’t rule a kingdom? What do you have that I lack? What makes a boy so much better?”

“What, you think what Mother does is useless? You think she’s a stupid, _do-nothing-but- needlework,_ Queen? Mother is one of the greatest warriors on Asgard!” Modi replies furiously. “That kind of role is important too, you know, Thrud.”

But this only seems to make Thrud even more upset. “And that’s another thing! I love that mother is this strong, invincible warrior, and don’t get me wrong I want to be one too, but that’s the only thing she ever allows me to dream about! Warrior Queen, Valkryie, strong powerful Goddess…but the _moment_ I bring up wanting to learn seidr she gets all upset!”

Modi scowls at his sister. “You know that’s because seidr is only used by tricksters and witches. It’s a dark, treacherous art.”

“Oh really?” Thrud says sarcastically. “Because you didn’t seem to mind when I used it just now.”

“That’s because it was an emergency.” Modi hisses through gritted teeth.

Thrud scoffs. “Yeah, whatever. I’m sure if you wanted to learn seidr nobody would bat an eyelash because you’re the _precious_ future king and you get whatever you want.”

Modi had been furious after that. So what if his stupid, spoiled, _bitterly_ jealous sister wanted to call him names? It wasn’t in Modi’s nature to respond to such pathetic and see through taunts. So instead he ignored her the rest of the way out of the Deadwood, and slowly cooled himself down, his mind wandering instead to the secret stone house.

By the time they reached Thrudheim, Modi knew he would go again to see his father in the Deadwood. The image of what happened there had not left his mind. The green of Loki’s eyes, the same color as the scales on a garden snake. The almost desperate quality to his father’s actions, like Loki was a tall, cool glass of water and Thor had been in the desert for far too long.

It was strange, however, seeing his father after that. Strange to see him so passionless and indifferent at the dining table, or when he bid Modi goodnight, his father’s face having the same countenance as cut stone. Modi wondered to himself, quietly, secretly, _did I imagine it? Was it another person? Was it father’s twin? Surely, this Thor and the Thor that was in the cabin can’t be the same person. _But then Modi would catch Thrud’s eye across the dinner table, and she would smirk, and Modi would remember that she had been there, and that she too had seen what he’d seen, and that it was all real. That it was the same Thor who was King of Asgard, who was married to Queen Sif, who was his father.

The needy, desperate, devoted thing that had been on the floor of that stone house - it was Modi’s _father_.

That was the day Modi lost all respect for Thor.

_I will never be like him_, Modi thought to himself, staring at his father from across the dining table. _I will never be so weak. I will never be so dependent on another person to live._

Still, he went back to Thrudheim, time after time, trying to find the thing that kept Thor alive. Trying to find what made it so special. What made it better than Modi and Thrud and his mother. _One person,_ Modi thought to himself incredulously, _how can one person be worth more than all of us in his mind?_

Thrud had taught him the seidr to enter the houses wards, so he would go in sometimes as well. They wouldn’t always have sex. Sometimes father and his whore would just lay in bed together, and tell each other stories, and laugh. Modi didn’t get it. The point of a whore was to have sex. Not to have…whatever it is they had.

Still, it happened. Loki would spin tales and Thor would stare at her enraptured and they wouldn’t even kiss but somehow the whole thing seemed intimate, private, like it wasn’t something Modi was supposed to be seeing. Modi would stare at Loki at those times, stare at her hard, wonder what it was about her that made his father putty in her hands. Modi had to grudgingly admit she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, but he also knew his father wasn’t so vain. Thor knew a lot of pretty women. Beautiful women. Exotic women. His mother herself was a rare beauty, with deep russet hair and eyes the color of onyx stones like the ones at the bottom of Mimir’s well of wisdom. She also had full lips, and thick lashes, and hips as wide as the Dovrefjell mountain range. She was a strongly built woman, a Queen. So what was it about this scrap of bones that attracted his father? Someone so opposite to his mother who was the axiom of Asgardian beauty?

But it turned out Modi was wrong. It wasn’t one person that was worth more than all of them.

It was two.

Modi had been going to the house secretly for two weeks when he finally saw…him. Bjorn and Iver had noticed his continued absences. They confronted him one day during their training sessions in the yard.

“Where do you always run off to after class?” Bjorn had asked him.

Modi had been staring at the Deadwood when Bjorn had suddenly spoken. He blinked, slightly bemused.

“Huh?”

Bjorn had rolled his eyes. Iver snickered. “What, find yourself a girl, is that it? Is that why you barely talk to us these days? You’d better not ‘cause Hilde will have your head. I know it doesn’t seem like it but-“

Modi let out an abrupt bark of laughter. “What? A girl?” _Out of all the things his friends thought he had on his mind_…Modi snorted. “Yeah, no.”

_Though, in a way, I suppose, it’s true-_

Iver blinked at him. Then he glared. “Then what is it? It’d better be important because you forgot we were pranking Heimdall and all that planning was for nothing because you didn’t bring the ants.”

Modi could only stare back at Iver in mute reply. He’d forgotten about that.

“Look, Iver, I’m sorry I forgot about that but-“

Iver cut him off. “But what? I got in trouble for that you know? If you only stopped be so _selfish _all the time-“

“_Iver_.” Modi snapped, his tone as a cold as Jotunheim frost. “I can’t tell you about it right now, but I will, _soon._ So stop whining about it.”

Iver and Bjorn were both quiet from where they sat across from him, until finally Iver stood up. He didn’t look at Modi.

“Whatever, Modi.” He replied indifferently. “Let’s go, Bjorn.”

Bjorn threw one glance over his shoulder at Modi as he stood up.

Then he turned around and walked away.

XXX

Modi went right after training.

He entered the wards and it went like it did every time. He waited in the downstairs for a little bit. Looked at the the living room. Sat down in the plush chairs. Picked up some of the books in the shelves, read the ones in English, vaguely looked through the ones in another language. Then he went upstairs. Saw father and his whore fucking. Wondered for the millionth time if it was really his father. Realized it was. Felt disgusted. Saw Thor and his whore cocoon each other, whisper meaningless nothings in their ears. Felt even more disgusted. Stared hard at the whore, wondered what is was about her that made his father so weak, because beauty didn’t cut it, realized he couldn’t see it, got angry, then made his way down the stairs. It went like it always did. Until he got out the door.

_It doesn’t make any sense, any sense, no sense at all. Is it really because she’s so beautiful? Is father really that-?_

“What are you doing?”

Modi is jolted out of his thoughts. He whirls around only to see a boy his age with cyan eyes looking at him hostilely. Modi can’t help but notice he has the same ivory skin and midnight black hair as the whore. The thought instills in him a feeling of dread.

“None of your business.” Modi replies coldly, his eyes narrowed to knife slits. He’s using the same tone he uses to order around staff.

The boy with cyan eyes scoffs. “None of my business? You’re on _my_ property.”

Modi stares at the boy incredulously. He feels something ugly and hot begin to settle under his skin.

“Your property?” Modi repeats disbelievingly. “_Your_ property?”

_The sheer **nerve** of this boy-_

Modi snarls. “The Deadwood and everything surrounding Thrudheim belongs to King Thor. Including all of _Asgard_.”

The boy only blinks owlishly, the hostility in his face replaced by confusion. His next words feel like a boulder to Modi’s chest, breaking every rib that surrounds his lungs, puncturing his ability to breathe.

“King Thor? You mean my Papa?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact: cyan is defined as a greenish blue 😏😏😏


	4. Atla

Something in him bleeds. Not anything physical. Not anything you can see. But something like trust.

“Papa?” Modi asks stupidly. “_Papa?”_ He repeats, but this time is voice is meaner, more like acid than words. “Is that some sort of joke? Do you think you’re funny?”

The boy is looking at him warily. He ignores Modi’s question. “You’re not supposed to be here. I’m going to tell my papa-“

“Stop saying that!” Modi snarls, pushing himself into the other boys space. “Stop _lying_. King Thor is _my_ father-“

“_King Thor King Thor King Thor!”_ The boy abruptly snaps, mocking Modi. His eyes are now a dark blue, reflecting the troubled skies above them. Just like his father’s. “Who is this King Thor you speak of? My papa is a simple hunter and gatherer who sells his meat every month in the Uppsala market-“

“Father likes venison meat best.” Modi cuts in, staring hard at the other boy. “He likes it undercooked rather than over, because he says you get more iron that way. Father likes to drink. He once drank 121 glasses of mead and was still able to function normally. When he bathes he likes to have his tub on his left side so he can put his left leg in first. This is because when he was twenty he was in a hunt and injured his left ankle. It never healed properly. It swells when it rains for some reason. So now it’s the first thing he puts in the water. Father doesn’t understand art, doesn’t like it, but likes the paintings of Hela’s war against the Valkyries, and any good hunt. He likes falling asleep to rain and he’s gotten poison ivy twice his life and he never liked his father and he killed his older brothers and when he was 28 he met my mother and had me and became the King of Asgard.”

Modi’s eyes narrow to knife slits. “So who is this papa you speak of?”

The boy is shaken. He stares at Modi in utter shock, his eyes traveling the planes of Modi’s face, noticing the blonde hair, the strong jaw, the straight nose, all just like Thor’s. Something like horror washes across his face. The boy’s chin wobbles and there is something wet in his eyes.

“You’re a dirty, filthy little liar is what you are-“

_Dirty? Filthy? **Liar?**_ No one has ever called Modi by such names before. No one has ever called Modi by _any_ names before. He feels himself seethe.

“You dare disrespect your prince in such a manner?” Modi growls.

The boy’s eyes glitter like the coldest sapphires. He spits at Modi’s feet.

“You’re not _my_ anything.”

Modi tackles him.

No one has ever talked to Modi in that way. No one has ever treated him like this. Like he’s nothing. Like he’s the shit they’ve stepped on. It makes Modi’s blood boil. Makes him grind at his teeth makes him want to tear this boy to shreds. _Nothing? I’m nothing? You’re the son of a whore so what does that make you-?_

The boy rakes a hand across Modi’s face and he screams, immediately falling backwards.

“Your mother’s a whore.” Modi spits, elbows on the ground, trying to blink away the blood in his left eye. “You’re mother’s a _disease _ridden whore who stole my father, who made him cheat on my mother-“

Sapphire eyes flash dangerously and then there’s a kick to his ribs. Modi gasps, feels his breathe leave him, and then clutches his side in pain. The boy moves to kick him again except this time before he does Modi grabs him by the ankle and pulls.

The boy falls on his back and Modi is up and on top of him, straddling his hips. The boy makes to claw at his face again but Modi grabs both his wrists and pins them to ground.

Modi grins, blood in his teeth. The boy snarls at him. Modi clicks his tongue.

“_Nuh-uh-uh_. Time to be a good little boy. Now tell me, what’s your name?”

The boy sneers, but doesn’t say anything. _Oh, well_. Modi pulls his fist back and hits him in the face. Hard.

Modi’s eyes are narrowed when he speaks again. “Name.”

The boy spits out blood then turns back to face Modi. He runs a tongue over his lip before he speaks. Modi has split his lip.

“Atla.” The boy grunts, and Modi’s expression turns odd. _Isn’t that a girl’s name?_ Modi pushes the thought out of his mind.

“Alright, Atla, here’s what you’re going to do.” Modi sneers, going nose to nose with the other boy. “You’re going to leave this place. You’re not going to tell _my_ father. You’re going to take your _whore_ of a mother with you-“ Atla’s eyes burn at that, and he begins to struggle underneath Modi but Modi only slams his wrists to the ground again. Atla stills.

“-and you’re never going to come back or else I’ll hurt your mother like I’ve hurt you. And trust me when I say I know people who can do it too. Got it?”

Atla stares him, incredulous, and Modi feels off kilter. _Was I not serious enough? Not scary enough? Why is he looking at me like that-?_

Atla bursts into laughter. It’s so abrupt that Modi almost releases his hold on Atla’s wrist. Almost.

“What’s so funny?” Modi snaps, not liking the turn of events.

“it’s just that-“ Atla says in between laughter, “-you really think that-“

Modi pulls his fist back and hits Atla again, this time on the side of his face. This time Atla cries out.

_Glass jaw._

“Now listen to me you little bastard,” Modi snarls in the other boys ear, “you’re going to listen to what I say or you’re going to regret-“

Modi screams.

His hands are burning, feel like the fires that burn in the deepest forges of Svartalfheim, feel like he’s been cut with the flaming sword of Surtr. He immediately lets go of Atla’s wrists, stumbling backwards and digging his hands into the cool dirt, doing anything to try and stop the pain, when all of a sudden it stops. Modi turns around.

“What the-“

_Snap._

That’s the sound of Modi’s nose breaking, as Atla hits him in the face with a rock.

Modi feels his eyes involuntarily start to water, feels blood begin to drip down from his nose to his chin. He puts a hand over his nose to cover it, staring at Atla in shock. He’s still holding the rock, eyes fierce, mouth pulled pack in a sneer, standing straight but obviously tense, waiting for Modi’s reaction.

Modi looks at Atla, then at his hand. There is nothing there. No burn mark, no red line, no scar, no anything. Modi looks back up at Atla.

“You-you’re a witch.” He stutters, voice pitched odd from his broken nose.

Atla sneers at him, lips twisted in an ugly smile. He drops the rock and moves closer. Modi immediately steps back. Atla notices and laughs.

“That’s right. I’m a witch. I practice seidr.” Atla smirks. “What are you going to do about it?”

Modi feels his heart start to beat uncontrollably. His fingers twitch.

“Seidr is outlawed in Asgard.” He starts shakily. “It’s a dark, treacherous art.” He spits out, repeating what his mother always tells them. “W-witches are to be hanged in the public commons-“

“Stupid boy.” Atla laughs, eyes glinting like knives, now closer to green than blue. He steps closer to Modi, and this time Modi does his best to stand his ground. His fingers twitch uncontrollably.

“Don’t you know the only way to kill a witch is to drown them?”

Modi swallows. “That’s not,” he clears his throat, tries to sound more confident, “-that’s not true.”

Atla bares his teeth in smile. “It is too. You want to know how I know?”

Modi doesn’t want to know. But he asks anyway. “How?”

Atla’s grin drops. His mouth is set in a sneer. “Because they hanged my mother ten times already and he’s still alive.”

Modi stares at Atla in blank shock. “That’s not possible.”

_But so is seidr. And it still exists._

Modi ignores his thoughts, focuses on the bigger threat that is Atla.

“Not possible, huh?” Atla replies. His eyes narrow. He leans into Modi to whisper in his ear, and it takes all of Modi’s willpower not to flinch back.

“Before, when you said you’d hurt me and my mother, you still want to know why I laughed?”

Modi swallows hard. He doesn’t trust his voice, so he gives a slight nod.

“I laughed because you couldn’t hurt my mother with the best soldiers in this town. Hel, you couldn’t even hurt my mother with the greatest army in all the nine realms. But my mother?” Atla pauses, and Modi hears his own heartbeat echoing in his ears. “My mother could hurt _you_. My mother could kill your entire family and not break a sweat. My mother could twitch her finger and your spine would be _ripped_ straight out of your back-“

Modi shoves Atla away from him. “Shut up. Shut **_UP_**.” Modi snarls. Blood is pumping furiously through his veins and his heart feels like it’s about to burst right of his chest. “What you’re saying is treason. You just verbally threatened a prince of Asgard. My mother, a Queen of Asgard. When I tell my mother what you said, when I tell my _father_, what slanderous blasphemy you spoke of-“

But Atla just starts laughing again, this time uncontrollably, gasping for breath.

“Go, then, prince, go tell _my_ papa what his son said-“

Modi feels the blood rush to his face, feels his hands clench into fists, wants to wrap them around Atla’s little throat and squeeze the life out of him, but he doesn’t dare not knowing what seidr Atla is capable of.

“You’re going to pay for this,” he says instead, furiously, “all of it, you’re going to pay-“

Still, Atla laughs uncontrollably, says only-

“Okay, little prince, sure, little prince-“

So Modi stops wasting his breath, and still covering his nose, he turns around in a fury to head back to Thrudheim, all the while Atla’s laughter follows him out.

_“Bye-bye little prince!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BY THE WAY - Atla is not a girl. He is intersex like Loki!


	5. Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have too many WIPs smh  
also school has been reallllly busy this month

Modi barges into Thrud’s room.

“He has a son!”

A maid is brushing Thrud’s hair when Modi bursts in. Thrud promptly excuses her. When the maid finally leaves, Modi continues furiously.

“He has a son with that _whore_-“

“Modi!” Thrud snaps. “You’re bleeding all over my Great White! Get a rag or something!”

Thrud’s Great White was a Jotunheim bear father killed for Thrud’s third birthday. Now it’s skin served as a decorative carpet for Thrud’s room.

Modi grabs one of the rags the maid left behind and pushes it against his nose.

“Did you not hear me?” Modi says, glaring at Thrud, his voice muffled by the rag. “Father has another child. Father has a _bastard_.”

Thrud rolls her eyes, before flipping her hair over her shoulder and continuing to brush it.

“Impossible.” She says, facing her vanity. “I’ve been there _loads_ of times and I’ve never seen a little bastard running around.”

“And how many times would that be?” Modi asks, eyes narrowed.

“Ten times.” Replies Thrud, still absent mindedly running the brush through her hair.

Modi scoffs. “Wow. Ten times, over what? A span of three months? Don’t pretend to care about this like I do.”

Looking at the mirror on Thrud’s vanity, Modi can see Thrud’s eyes narrow dangerously. Carefully, she puts down the brush to turn and face him.

“You’re right, Modi.” Thrud smiles dryly. “I don’t care about this like you do. And you want to know why? Let me tell you a little story. I was supposed to be a boy.”

Modi snorts. “Yeah right.”

Thrud’s eyes flash menacingly. “No, Modi. I really was. The doctor had said so, and everyone was so, very, _very_ happy. So imagine their surprise when I came out instead. Imagine their _disappointment_. They had been expecting a future king, and instead they got me.” Thrud turns away from him, faces her vanity and calmly begins to brush through her hair once again.

“So, no, Modi,” Thrud says blandly, “frankly I don’t care if father has a wife he loves more, or a child, because even though father doesn’t love you either, he certainly places more value on you, and mother very clearly loves you best. I’ve never been the center of anyone’s world. You’re still the center of an entire kingdom. So who cares if you’re not the center of father’s?”

Modi wanted to scream until his throat went raw. He wanted to cry. Of course Thrud didn’t get it. Of course she responded in her typical disinterested manner. Thrud had always hated him. It was one of the more subtler things he picked up over the years, one of the reasons left unsaid for why they weren’t friends. It was the reason she had showed him father’s whore, because even though it didn’t hurt her, she knew it would break him. Thrud hated him in the way people usually hate someone who has everything without even asking for it, naturally and unspoken. It was the way Iver hated him for being the more popular friend, it was the Bjorn hated him for being closer to Iver, it was the way Hilde hated him for being a boy, it was the way his mother hated him for being worth more to Thor, it was the way everyone in the kingdom hated him for being born having what they could never have. They loved him, yes. They adored him.

But they really, really hated him.

“Whatever, Thrud.” Modi replied, voice hoarse, trying to keep from crying. “You’re right. Who cares if I’m not the center of father’s world? Not everything’s about me. _This_ is not about me. But it is about mother. And she out of everyone definitely needs to know-“

Thrud whips around in her chair, face no longer cool and disinterested. She looks furious.

“You will _not_ tell mother.” She snarls, eyes as golden as a star on fire. “You will do no such thing. Father will kill me because I’m the one who told you, and mother will hate me because she isn’t allowed to hate you.”

“Well what am I supposed to do?” Modi explodes. “Let mother keep living a lie? Let father keep _humiliating_ her in this manner?!”

“In case you haven’t realized, Modi, we’re _all _living a lie.” Thrud sneers. “We’re the royal family. We’re supposed to be perfect. We’re supposed to love each other. But none of us do. Why can’t you get that through that big fat head of yours already?”

_“Because father is under a witches spell!”_

Silence. Thrud’s face is frozen in shock. Modi can feel the blood pumping through his ears, can hear it echoing, and he’s breathing like he’s just run a marathon.

“You’re lying.” Thrud says calmly, locking eyes with Modi. “Or else you saw incorrectly. You know that’s impossible.”

Modi raises his left hand, as his right is still putting pressure on his nose.

“I didn’t see anything. I felt it. Mother and son, they’re both witches. The bastard burned my hand with his seidr before breaking my nose. Then he threatened me saying his mother is a witch as well, and not even the greatest army in all nine realms would be able to protect me from her. What if father is under her spell? What if that’s why he’s with her?”

“Don’t be stupid, Modi.” She says coldly. “Our father? Under a witches spell? He’d kill himself before bending under a witches will. You know just as well as I do that father slaughtered an entire coven when he was barely nineteen. He dragged them naked by their feet tied to his horses before burning the entire village to the ground. So how in the world could you ever _presume_ to think his lover is a witch?”

“I know it doesn’t make sense!” Modi snaps. “But father behaving like this doesn’t make sense either! If he’s in danger mother _needs_ to know about it-“

“Father? In danger?” Thrud says incredulously. “He’s the king of Asgard. He’s the greatest warrior in all nine realms. And you think he’s in danger? Of a whore?”

Thrud bursts into laughter. “A whore…a _whore_ is more powerful than our father…more dangerous! In what world?”

Thrud is too busy laughing to see Modi walk out the door.

XXX

Modi storms into his mother’s chambers.

“Young master, Modi.” One of the maids says in surprise, standing from her position on the floor to bow to him.

“Out.” Modi commands, eyes like flint, and the maid flees. Modi turns to see his mother by her wardrobe, taking off her armor.

“You shouldn’t scare the maids like that.” She says off handedly, taking off her armor. Her hair shines bronze in the light of the sun. She looks like one of the avenging Valkyries in the painting of Hela’s war. “They have enough unpleasant stories about you as it is. Can you imagine the things they will say when you become king? It would not set a good example.”

“Father has a mistress.” Modi spits out bluntly.

At her dresser, the Royal Mother Sif freezes. When she turns around to face Modi, her eyes are hard.

“Who told you that?”

Modi stares at his mother. Her jaw is tight. Her lips are locked in a frown. But she is not otherwise upset. Or surprised.

Modi blinks. “You knew.”

His mother remains silent, and Modi can’t help but laugh.

“You knew…this whole time…and you never _told _us?”

It’s like a wasps nest has split apart in Modi’s brain. There is a buzzing in his ears and the pain from the knowledge of it makes it hard to think.

Sif smiles humorlessly in reply. “How could I not when he goes to her every night?”

The words feel like being dumped in a bucket of Jotunheim ice. “And let me guess,” Modi continues, voice tight, “you knew about Atla as well, didn’t you? You knew father had a bastard, a son he loved more than me, a son who calls him papa, and not father, or sir, or king Thor, but _papa_. You knew, and still you did nothing to stop it?”

His mother looks upset when she speaks. “We made sure that he would be born after you. We made sure that he would be unable to challenge your right to the throne. Modi, son, you have to trust me when I tell you I had your future in mind the whole time-“

“My right to the throne?” Modi gives an ugly laugh. “You think I care about that right now? Seriously? You just told me that not only did you know about this bastard, but you helped father and his mistress decide when to _have_ him?”

_“It was not my decision to make, Modi!”_ Sif snaps. Her golden eyes are as blinding in anger as Thrud’s. “The relationship-“ Sif’s teeth snag on the word, like she doesn’t want to say it, yet still she continues, “-the _relationship_ between Loki and your father is complicated. You wouldn’t understand. If Loki wanted to have a child with your father, I wouldn’t have been able to stop it. The most I could do was try to convince him of when to have it. And even that I barely managed.”

Modi flushes in anger. “But how can a mistress have such power! How can a mistress have more power than the Royal Mother-“

Sif interrupts, her voice a whip. “It can’t be _helped_, Modi. Loki has known your father for far longer than I’ve known him.”

_“There is nothing in this world that cannot be helped.”_ Modi snarls in reply, seething. “You act like you were powerless to stop it. You act like you are not one of the most feared warriors in all nine realms. You are still the queen, _surely_ that counts for something.”

Sif laughs, a dry, sarcastic laugh. “Me? Command your father? I could no more command your father than I could command Fenrir to stay in his chains and not commence Ragnarok. How can I, when the one that commands him is Loki?”

Modi grits his teeth. “She is a _whore-_“

“She is more than meets the eye.” Sif responds calmly.

It’s infuriating. The calmness of his mother. The acceptance. The tolerance she has to being disgraced in such a way, the way she fully embraces the insult further by aiding the secret of his father’s affair.

“I don’t care who she is.” Modi snarls. “I will not let her humiliate our family in such a way. I will not let _father_ humiliate us in such a way-“

“Who’s humiliating who now?” A voice asks from the door way, and Modi does not need to turn to know it is his father, knows right away from the deep baritone of his voice.

Modi tenses up. He schools his features into something colder, a mask that does not give anything away. He will not argue the way a child does. He will argue his case in a logical manner. He will tell Thor Loki is a witch and list the risks associated with keeping her. Thor, above all, does not take into account hysterical and thoughtless speech. He does not respect it. So Modi will keep his calm.

Or at least, that’s what he _thinks…_

…until he turns around and sees both blue eyes and green looking back at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah modi is an asshole but so is thrud :,)


	6. Whore

It is father’s whore and it is not father’s whore.

Loki’s hair is drastically shorter, curls behind her ears, a masculine hair-cut. She has the same sharp face and elegant neck and gemstone eyes but she is wearing men’s clothing. Riding leathers and black boots and a sword at her side.

Father’s whore catches him looking and mock bows. Her voice is sarcastic when she says-

“Prince Modi. This is quite an honor.”

And that is when Modi realizes Loki is not a woman but a man. Her – _HIS_ voice is deeper up close. Not as deep as his father’s, but certainly one that can’t be mistaken for a woman’s.

“You – you’re a man.” Modi splutters.

Loki simply picks at her – HIS – still delicate looking fingers, paying Modi no mind.

“Hm. Not quite a man. Not quite a woman either.” Loki gives a wry smile, and winks. “I don’t believe in genders – or at least – Asgardian ones.”

And it is like acid has crawled up his throat, like Sutr has stuck his flaming sword down Modi’s throat when he says-

“Father you – for this _thing_,” he spits out, “- for this man that is not quite a man but _still is_ a man – you cheated on mother? You cheated on the Asgardian Queen, gave birth to a bastard, for-_for this_?”

Cold sapphire blue eyes look back at him, and Modi can’t help but think of the boy in the Deadwood, think to himself, _even I didn’t inherit his eyes and yet that bastard did?_

Modi is hoping Thor will deny it. He is hoping Thor will try to make excuses.

Modi should know better by now.

“Yes,” is Thor’s passive reply, eyes not even blinking.

Modi bursts into laughter. Thor stares at him neutrally. Loki picks at his nails. Mother stands behind him stiff and closed off.

“To think,” Modi gasps for breath in between laughter, “to actually think! – that I used to look up to you! That I thought you were-!” _A gasp of breath_. “- And yet all this time – here you are – slave to a _whore-_“

Modi is still laughing when Thor backhands him across the face, his ring catching his lip and cutting it open.

When Modi turns back to look at him, Thor’s eyes are a storm blue that has been directed at corrupt ambassadors, degenerate prisoners, and ambitious advisors, but never at him.

It is enough to make Modi stop laughing.

“Loki is not a whore. Apologize.”

Modi’s eyes water from the pain. His lip is throbbing where it was split and he knows if he opens his mouth to speak his lips will stretch and the cut will hurt even more. So he doesn’t reply.

Thor raises his hand to strike him again and Modi closes his eyes.

“That is enough, Thor.” Sif’s voice carries across the room, cold and biting. Her eyes are like flint. “He is a child. You dare treat your son this way? Would you treat your bastard the same?”

“You dare call my child a bastard?” Loki speaks up, his green eyes narrowed, and the tension in the room increase tenfold. Gold eyes are locked on green ones, both brilliant in their anger, before Thor speaks up.

“That is enough of that.” He sighs, lowering his hand. “You are right, Sif. I was wrong to hit the boy. But this is a conversation between us. You need to leave.”

Sif’s eyes are molten gold, seething. “I will not go anywhere while _he_ is here-“

“I give you my word I will not lay a hand to your son.” Thor’s eyes flash dangerously. “You know better than anyone that I do not break my word.”

Sapphire locked on gold, until gold looks away and walks past without another word. Sif makes sure to shove Loki on her way out, but Loki only seems to find it amusing.

When Sif is gone, Modi finally speaks up. He looks at Thor.

“So what are you going to do?” He demands, face void emotion.

Thor’s eyes narrow at his impertinence. Loki, who is on the other side of the room, looks at them curiously upon hearing Modi’s words.

“What am _I_ going to do?”

“Yeah. About your…mistress. You’re going to throw her out right? And the child too? I found out, so it’s not proper anymore. If anyone else were to find out, the situation could spiral out of control.”

Thor stares at him incredulously. “You think I’m going to throw Loki out? Atla too?”

Modi blinks. “Well, obviously. Unless you intend to humiliate us. They shouldn’t even be this close to the palace in the first place.”

Loki, from his corner, snorts, which causes Thor to burst into laughter.

It is enough to light the fuse that is Modi’s anger.

“She’s a witch!” He snarls, teeth bared in a way that can only be described as predatory. “She should be hung from the gallows – she should be burned - no she should be drowned! Drowned ten times for safety! She’s a witch and your under her spell and that’s the only reason you’re acting like this!”

Thor stops laughing. Loki is watching him carefully, no longer amused. There is a hostility in the air so heavy it hurts to breathe let alone speak but still Modi continues.

“Father you above everyone else should know the threat a witch poses. You killed that coven didn’t you? You burned their town to the ground. You maintained the law that seidr be outlawed-“

“I knew.” Thor calmly responds.

Modi’s train of thought crashes, collapses in on itself.

“I knew what Loki was the moment I met him.”

Thor stares at him calmly. Loki eyes him warily. Modi’s head spins.

“Then why – why are you – “

_This is why father doesn’t love us._ The thought just flits it way into Modi’s head, from that first day he saw father and Loki. The way Thor looked up at Loki when he was between his legs. The complete adoration. It wasn’t manufactured. It wasn’t seidr.

It was genuine.

“You are absolute trash.” Modi seethes, fixes his father with his angry eyes. “And so is your mistress. You think you can keep them? You think you can hide them from everybody else? You think you can keep them your secret and love them in that little cage that you’ve built? You think that will work?” Modi laughs at the ridiculousness of it all. “Impossible. Everybody will find out anyway. But if you dump them now nobody will ever know. Send them to the farthest realm possible and nobody will ever realize the shame you’ve brought upon on our name. It’s the only logical course of action at this point.”

Thor’s response is a cool and calm-

“No.”

Modi blinks. “What do you mean no-?”

“Why should I?” Thor stares back at him, leaning against one of the walls, his arms crossed against his chest. Modi has never heard his father sound so like a child. “You just told me it’s useless to hide them. That everyone will know. In fact, people already do know,” Thor says, giving him a pointed stare, before continuing. “And if two pampered children already know, what’s the chance that smarter, older people haven’t figured it out yet? No,” Thor kicks off the wall, kneels down to Modi’s level, “it makes no sense to send them away. I sent them away in the first place to appease your mother. But your mother will never be appeased. She will always resent me for loving Loki, even if he isn’t present. And I kept them hidden so that you and Thrud would never feel inferior, but you already feel inferior, don’t you?”

Modi looks down at his feet, and his face burns.

“I never once hid them to appease the people. I never once kept Loki and Atla in the Deadwood because I cared what other realms would think, or what my advisors would think, or what the people would say about me having a mistress, or what names they would whisper behind my back. No, I never feared any of that. I simply did it not to openly disrespect you and your mother. But it doesn’t matter anymore, does it? And all of you always felt disrespected, didn’t you? All of you, always, resented me anyway. So I’m going to do what I should’ve done in the first place.”

Modi looks up from his shoes, stares into his father’s face. It is hard and unforgiving.

“Loki and Atla will live in the palace from now on.”

It is worse than a slap to the face. Modi immediately jumps up, his heart pounding furiously, anger settling around him like a second skin.

“You can’t do that – you wouldn’t dare - !”

“I am the king.” Thor’s eyes flash, lighting deep in those sapphire eyes. “I can do whatever I want.”

“But-!”

_“Enough Modi!”_ Thor booms, and Modi could swear his eyes were crackling with lighting. He has never seen his father so angry, so emotional. “I tire of this childness. I always thought you were a smart, quiet boy. But you more resemble an infant than a ten year old boy.”

Modi’s mouth snaps shut. His cheeks burn at his father’s reprimand.

_Let that scum set foot in this palace. Let that bastard try. Let him see what happens when false princes try to take what’s mine._

Thor leaves out the door, and Loki is about to as well when he turns and graces Modi with a pitying look. He sighs.

“Little prince, this is not personal. I don’t want to live here either. Atla as well-“

“I do not care to hear about your bastard!” Modi snaps, humiliation and anger sitting like oil in the pit of his stomach. “He will not find a home here.”

It is a mistake to say out loud. Loki’s hand is on his neck in an instant, eyes glowing the brightest green Modi has ever seen, like the unnatural lighting storms that paint the sky the same colors.

“You are such a proud little boy.” He sneers, fingers digging into his neck, and Modi can feel the seidr crackling off his body, electrifying him. “So arrogant. You pretend to be disgusted at me, call me a whore, call me trash, yet you spied at my door everyday for the last three weeks.”

Modi freezes, can’t even breathe at the shock that comes from Loki’s words.

Loki gives a small chuckle. “That’s right, I knew. Your sister is a clever girl, coming in with your father so I wouldn’t notice you two entering, but she should know such charms are nothing to me.” Loki’s green eyes burn into his. “I can see everything. So if you dare harm my son in anyway while he’s here – just know that laws like spells are useless against me. I don’t care. I don’t care if you’re next in line for the throne. I don’t care that you’re Thor’s son. I will cut you into pieces and feed you to Fenrir myself.” Loki smiles, lips stretched gruesomely, teeth bared. “Understand?”

Modi’s fingers twitch by his side. He takes a breathe, and then he nods.

“Good boy.” Loki coos, and then he is standing and walking out the door as well.

When Modi glances at his reflection in a mirror, he can still see an imprint of Loki’s hand on his neck.


	7. Papa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ive been updating a lot these past three days but the next one will prob be a while. just felt bad cuz i hadn't updated since september

Atla cries after papa tells him the truth. He tries to run to his room and lock it behind him but papa catches him before he can, wrapping his arms around his body, and though Atla struggles, he knows it is useless against his papa’s crushing strength.

“You don’t love us!” He wails, as his Thor rocks him back and forth. “How could you when-when-_when you have another wife!”_ Atla hiccups. “When you have _a-a-_another son!”

Atla thinks of the boy’s face and sees the resemblance as plain as day. The squareness of his face, the hard jaw. Shining gold hair as straight as straws of hay. The only thing that set him apart were the deep brown of his eyes, so brown they were black, as black as oblivion.

Atla cries harder. “He was s-s-so mean! I hate him! I hate you!”

_I hate that he looks more like you than me. I hate that his features are not as delicate as mine._

His papa makes a pained face.

“Don’t say that, Atla. Don’t ever say that, not even in jest.” His papa’s eyes are the same blue as the sky when it rains, sad and miserable.

Atla doesn’t care. “I’m not saying it in jest!” He tries to elbow his papa the best he can. “So let me go _let me go let me go!”_

_At least I have his eyes._

“What do you want me to say, Atla? Do you think I love them more than you? Do you think I love that boy more than you? I don’t love any of them.”

Atla scoffs and rubs a hard hand under his eyes. “Yeah you hate them so much you made that boy’s mother fat with child and keep them in a castle while you kept us in the Deadwood. Wow, papa,” Atla says sarcastically, eyes watery, “you love us _sooo_ much!”

Papa’s eyes are desperate. “Atla, my little warrior, my little prince –“

“Don’t call me that!” Atla snarls. “Apparently my true title is _bastard_ so – “

Papa grabs him roughly by the jaw. His eyes are two storm clouds when he speaks.

“You are no bastard. You are my son. I never want to hear that word come out of your mouth again.”

Atla has never seen his papa’s face so angry. He feels tears rush to his eyes again.

“I just don’t understand!” He wails. “If you don’t love them then why –“

“It was my duty, Atla.” Papa eyes are beseeching. “If I wanted to be king, I had to marry a noble lady, and produce an heir. Just because it was my duty, my obligation, doesn’t mean I enjoyed any of it. Doesn’t mean I love them. I love _you_. I love your mother. Why else would I have gone to such lengths to keep you here?”

Atla sniffles. He glares at his father. “If you truly loved us, you would’ve given it all up!” He uses his seidr to burn his father and papa lets go of him in surprise, successfully allowing Atla to run away.

A couple days later Atla is sulking in his room refusing to pack up when his mother comes in. Loki glares at Alta when he sees he hasn’t packed anything.

“What are you doing?” He snaps.

“I don’t want to live in the palace. I don’t want to see that horrid boy and his mother. And I hate papa!” Atla pouts.

“Stop being a brat and pack up.” His mother glowers.

“I’m mad at you too.” Atla growls. “You knew the whole time and thought it was okay not to tell me? I can’t _believe_ I really thought papa was some poor meat seller, working himself to the bone for us day in and day out, when in reality he was a king the whole time!”

Loki raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Oh so your father is a king, _boohoo_! Now you will be surrounded by riches and luxury, extra _boohoo_. Will you stop with the dramatics already?”

Atla grinds his teeth. “You know that’s not the only thing that’s bothering me! How are you okay with this?! How are you okay with papa having another wife and another child? I will never forgive him for it! Never!”

Mother whacks him on the side of the head and Atla yelps.

“You should be grateful.” His mama’s eyes are green fire. “You think he loves them, truly? You think he married that boy’s mother for any reason other than obligation? You should see the way he treats that poor boy. Like a stranger. Like he isn’t even his own blood. That boy begs at his feet for scraps and your father just looks down at him with cold eyes. And now he wants to bring us into the palace, though it will bring down shame upon his name, upon his other family.” Mama sighs. “But such is the way of your father. He spoils you endlessly with his love.” Loki glares. “A little too much if I say so myself.”

Atla sticks his tongue out. “I don’t care!” He replies waspishly, and runs away when Loki tries to grab his ear.

Still, his mama’s words stay on his mind.

_‘You should see the way he treats that poor boy. Like he isn’t even his own blood.’_

The words make Atla uneasy. He remembers the anger on the other boy’s face when he called Thor papa. The way he called him King Thor and not papa. The formal way in which the boy spoke of him. Atla thinks to himself, _truly, could papa be so cold? To a child? To a child that is his?_

The idea of it makes Atla uncomfortable. He does not know his father to be a cold man, but he also did not know he was a king.

What else does Atla not know about his father?

XXX

Thor gives his whore and his bastard the whole left wing of Thrudheim. It is now forbidden to anyone who is not Loki or his son Atla.

Thrud confronts Modi the next day.

“You told mother?” She seethes. “You told _father_?”

Modi doesn’t even look up from his assigned work. “Mother already knew.”

“Look at me, Modi!” She snaps, and Modi sighs and looks up.

“What?” He asks boorishly.

“What?” She echoes incredulously. “_What? _Are you seriously asking me that right now? Because of you, a whore and a bastard now live on our palace. Because of you, asking the impossible as usual, all the ladies of the court are either laughing at me or giving me pitying looks. Because of your selfishness –!”

“_My _selfishness?” Modi cuts in, voice as sharp as glass. “Do not pretend not to have a hand in this. If you weren’t so dedicated to hurting me, you would have never taken me to see father’s secret family in the first place. You knew how I would react. You knew I would be angry. But you did it anyway, because you just couldn’t _stand_ giving up an opportunity to hurt me.”

Thrud’s face blanks. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I simply wanted to show you the _truth_ –“

Modi snickers. “You’re a bad liar. You have a habit of putting on a poker face whenever you lie. Too bad anyone who knows you also knows that you don’t ever stop sneering, _especially_ when you’re telling the truth.”

Thrud colors. “Whatever, Modi.” She sneers. “I hope you enjoy life with your bastard brother. You’ll have to see him every day now, and it’s nobody’s fault but your own.”

Thrud walks away, and Modi throws his workbook across the room in anger.

XXX

The next morning Modi makes his way to the dining room for breakfast. When he gets there, both Thrud and his mother are already seated. He murmurs his greetings and sits down as well, laying a cloth over his lap as the scullery maids flutter around them with food. When Modi looks up, the head of the table is empty.

Thor never misses meals with them.

Modi considers that his father may be late, even though he is never late. Sif and Thrud eat silently besides him, and the only sound that is present is the clinking of knives and forks against porcelain.

His mother finishes first, and excuses herself. She has a stony look on her face when she leaves.

Once Sif is out of hearing range, Thrud looks up at Modi and sneers.

“Happy, Modi? Now he won’t even dine with us. He won’t even pretend to care.”

Modi’s silverware clatter against his plate. He stands up abruptly, his chair falling backwards, and doesn’t bother saying anything to Thrud as leaves the room, his food unfinished, ash in his mouth.

He knows just where to find Thor.

There are two guards that block the entrance to the left wing, but they both know Modi, and they both know that he has more authority than them, so they let him in.

Modi doesn’t know why two people need an entire wing, even less so when he finds them all crowded in one of the smaller quarters, which he later finds out is Atla’s. Sure enough there is his father on one side of the bastard, while his whore is on the other, squashed together on a small bed, trays of breakfast food all over the room, including the bed. Modi peeks in, making sure not be seen.

Atla has his arms crossed, eyes closed and cheeks puffed out in anger. Thor pokes him.

“I brought all the foods you asked of me. Won’t you forgive me now?”

Thor’s voice is pleading, his eyes sad. Modi has never heard his father plead before. Has never heard him ask for forgiveness, not even the last six times he forgot Modi’s birthday, or the last three times he left Modi outside waiting for him to go hunting because something else came up, or all the times Modi made something for his father’s birthday and he’d find it discarded in some corner of the castle.

But Modi hadn’t minded back then. He just accepted that it was the way his father was.

He minds now.

“I changed my mind!” Atla huffs, his arms still crossed. “I want krumkake instead, and lefse, and kumla.”

Father’s eyes are still sad, resemble more the eyes of a kicked puppy dog than a king, and he’s about to open his mouth, no doubt to call some scullery maid, when Loki whacks his son on the head.

“Oh no you don’t.” Loki glares. “You already _‘changed your mind’_ 21 times. You’re not changing it a 22nd just because you want to hurt your father. What are we going to do with all this food, hm?” He says, gesturing around wildly. “Do you know how many mouths this could feed? I never knew you to be so wasteful, Atla. You’ve only been in this castle two days but already you’re acting like a pampered prince!”

Atla looks properly shamed. Thor tries to speak up –

“If Atla wishes it –“

The whore turns his angry eyes towards father as well. “Don’t you start too, Thor. The only reason Atla is so spoiled is because you coddle him endlessly. He keeps doing what he wants because he knows you can’t say no.”

There is something like an invisible barbed wire closing tighter around Modi’s heart.

_Can’t say no? But father says no all the time to everybody. To all of us._

But apparently not with people he loves.

The realization is enough to make his heart bleed.

“I’m sorry, mama.” Atla says, head bowed. “I didn’t mean to be so thoughtless.”

Loki softens, pokes his cheek as well. “Don’t you have something to say to your father?”

Atla looks up at Thor through his lashes. “I’m sorry, papa. For being mean.”

It is enough to chase the storm clouds out of his father’s eyes. Thor smiles, a genuine, happy smile.

“I understand, Atla. No need to look so sad. You know I could never be mad at you.”

When Atla’s shameful expression still doesn’t change, Thor begins to tickle him, and Atla starts to giggle hysterically. Thor grins in reply. Loki rolls his eyes, obviously annoyed.

“There is no space for that in this bed! You two dunces are going to knock me off!”

“Uh-oh.” Thor whispers dramatically. “I think mama is _maaahd._” He says in a sing song voice. Thor grabs a pickled herring and stuffs it in Loki’s face. “I think you’re just hungry, angel. Maybe this will put you in a better mood?”

Loki grabs the pickled herring from Thor’s hand with his teeth, growling. Thor laughs.

Modi watches the whole scene, sick with envy. He watches as they laugh and bother each other and feed each other from different trays with their hands. He watches as they make a mess and Loki complains while Atla and Thor simply tease him. They are all crushed together, and it cannot be comfortable, but still they smile and the room is so loud and they are so focused on each other they don’t even notice Modi. Modi thinks of their own meals together. Father at the head of the table, hard and imposing. His mother silent and regal. His sister the picture of poised grace. He thinks of the space between all of them, seats far away from each other, never touching, never talking. His father could’ve been a marble statue at these times. He never smiled. He never seem pleased – though – he never seemed displeased either. Thor was just a black hole, void of emotion. He never knew how wrong that picture was until now.

Right when Modi thinks he’s had enough, Atla speaks up. His eyes are lowered. He seems unsure of himself.

“Papa is it true? Do you really – do you really not love them?”

Silence. Modi holds his breath.

And then Thor is scooping his bastard into a hug, holding him the way he never held Modi.

“Never.” Thor replies easily, eyes closed. “Not for one second have I loved them. Not for one second have I not wished they were not mine.”

_(the sound of a heart breaking is not something you can hear)_

Modi decides he has heard enough. More than enough. He has been given a hurt that will last him an entire lifetime, and as he is walking away he realizes he knows now what a family is.

And that his will never be it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you can't NOT feel bad for modi after this chapter


	8. Bastard

“Is that the bastard?” Iver asks, spitting out a mandarin seed, waiting for his turn with the swords instructor.

Modi sits on a bench, flushed from his turn in the ring. He watches as the swords instructor tries to teach Atla how to hold one, but the second it is in his hand it drops to the ground. He does not have enough strength to even lift one, let alone yield it.

“Yes.” Modi spits out, annoyed at the sight of him.

Iver watches thoughtfully. “Even Hilde could do a better job than him, and she’s a girl.”

“It’s a waste a time,” Modi replies back, watching as well. “His hands are softer than mine, and I’m a prince. His wrists are so small they’ll probably break under the strain.”

Iver squints. “Are you sure he’s not a girl in disguise? He is rather delicate looking. And I’ve never heard the name Atla before, but it sounds like a girl’s name.”

Modi considers his name. _Atla_. It does sound rather soft and girlish. Not sharp and heavy like Iver or Modi. He watches the pink flush grow on cream colored cheeks, rosy from the heat. Big feline eyes on a narrow, small face. Bow shaped lips. Long lashes just like his mother, black as ink.

Modi suddenly has a thought. _If father’s whore is a man, how did they have a child?_ Then he remembers that Loki said he was not quite a man, or a woman. He wonders if Atla is the same way as well.

Modi blinks, then looks away. “Hm. He does kind of look like one doesn’t he?”

Iver is silent. When Modi turns to look at him, he is shuffling his feet.

“What?” Modi asks.

Iver does not look up from his shoes. “It’s just that…I was curious about the…whore?” He says it like a question. Like he doesn’t know whether he is curious or not.

This get’s Modi’s attention. “What about her?” He says sharply.

“It’s just that…Bjorn told me…she’s the most beautiful women in all the nine realms.” Iver looks up, face hesitant. “Is it true?”

“Queen Sif is the most beautiful woman in all nine realms.” Modi snaps. “You should know better than to believe such nonsense.”

Iver looks properly chastened. “Right, right.” He smiles sheepishly. “Of course.”

Modi turns back to glare at the ring. He watches as one of the guard give Atla a lighter sword, one that he can finally hold without dropping. It is practically a toy it is so small. Modi watches as Atla practices on the wooden dummies, his sword missing the mark every time.

“He will never learn that way,” Modi mutters.

“What?”

Modi stands up from the bench and enters the ring. He excuses the swords master.

Erik, the swords master, hesitates. “Your father gave me specific instructions that Atla was only to be taught, and not participate, in sword work.”

“Is my father here?” Modi asks, giving his most commanding look.

“No.” Erik replies back nervously.

“Then who is currently the highest authority?”

Erik sighs, defeated. “You, young master.”

“Then you should follow my will.”

Erik walks off of the ring leaving only Modi and Atla. Atla protests.

“Hey, chicken legs!” He yells, leaning over the wall that surrounds the ring. “You can’t leave me with this boy! He hates me! He’s going to kill me!”

“I’m not going to kill you.” Modi snaps. “Stop making a scene.”

Atla turns to glare at him. “I’ll make a scene if I wanna make a scene. I’m only eight years old, that’s a good excuse for a lot of things.”

“That’s not an excuse for anything.” Modi glowers.

“Well my papa – “ Modi’s eyes darken dangerously, and Atla changes course immediately “- _our_ papa says it is.”

Modi smiles humorlessly. “Well. _Our_ papa is a lot nicer to you than he is to me.”

“That’s not true!” Atla protests, eyes flashing green. “Papa is a really nice guy. You must have done something wrong if he doesn’t like you.” He huffs.

“The only thing I did wrong was be born to the woman he didn’t love.”

Atla shifts uncomfortably and lowers his eyes. “Papa – papa loves you.”

This boy is worse at lying than Thrud. It infuriates him.

“Pick up your sword.” Modi snaps.

Atla looks up with alarmed eyes. “You can’t fight me. Papa said-“

“_Papa said papa said papa said!”_ Modi sneers. “Are you a papa’s boy? Can you doing nothing else without your _beloved_ papa around?”

Atla grits his teeth. “No, _your esteemed highness_,” Atla mocks, “it’s just that I’ve never used a sword in my life, while you obviously have. Don’t you think that’s a little unfair?”

_Don’t you think it’s a little unfair that father loves you more?_

Modi gives a dry smile. “Life’s unfair. Pick up your sword. I won’t wait for you again.”

Atla seethes and picks up his sword. His stance is all wrong. So is the way he’s holding his sword. If this were a real fight, he would be done for.

Modi strikes first, and pure luck has Atla blocking his blow. Already Atla’s arm is trembling against Modi’s strength, and the weight of his sword, which is the lightest there is.

Modi can’t help but give a look of faux sympathy. “Too bad papa can’t save you now.” He mocks.

Atla’s eyes burn. He gives an ugly smile. “You’re just jealous because papa would never save you.”

It feels like he’s been whipped across the back with raw hide. Modi grinds his teeth together, feels like an army of fire ants are eating away at his skin. He pushes forwards with more strength and Atla falls backward into the dirt, his sword knocked out of his hand.

Iver laughs somewhere in the distance. “Bastard, Modi is going to kill you if you don’t get up!”

Modi looks down at Atla with dark eyes. He raises his sword and just as he’s about to strike, Atla rolls out of the way, Modi’s sword striking dirt instead. Atla is running away. Everybody else is laughing. Modi is furious.

“You can’t run away from me, Atla!” He yells. “Coward!”

When he can’t wiggle open the door to get out of the ring, Atla turns back to face him, snarling like a cornered animal. He has no sword. Modi moves to strike again, and Atla swiftly moves out the way. He’s about to turn to face Atla when he feels a blast of pain to the back of his knees and falls to the ground.

When he looks up, he sees Atla holding up a metal pole that has been left behind. Not very big or heavy, but strong enough to hurt.

Modi sneers at him. “You cheat.”

Atla raises an eyebrow. “Cheat? You said you wanted a real fight. Well let me tell you something, _your highness_,” Atla sneers, “this is how a fight is in the _real _world. Anything goes.”

Atla raises the pole to hit him again but Modi jumps up and grabs it before he can, pushing it away before hitting Atla with the butt of his sword on his forehead. Atla cries out, staggering back a few steps, holding a hand to his bleeding forehead, and Modi advances. He drops his sword. He’s angry. This isn’t a sword fight anymore. This is just a fight. He raises his hand to slap Atla across the face but this time it is Atla who grabs him. His eyes flash green and Modi’s entire arm feels like _fire_.

Modi cries out, falling to the ground on his knees, Atla still holding his wrist above him, his eyes wild. Just when he thinks he’s about to pass out from the pain, Atla lets go of his wrist, his eyes wide in surprise, and rushes out of the ring, launching himself over the wall.

When Modi feels like he can breathe again, he stands up and follows.

Iver jeers at him from across the training yard. “What was that, Modi? I thought you said you could break that bastard’s wrists?”

Modi grits his teeth, but doesn’t bother responding. Instead he follows the way Atla fled, finding him sitting inside one of the old horse stables.

Atla jumps up when he sees him. He’s instantly on alert. Modi glares at him.

“What was that?” Modi snaps.

Atla blinks in surprise, obviously having expected something else.

“What?”

“You used your seidr on me. In public. Are you stupid?”

“Listen,” Atla glares back, “I know I shouldn’t have hurt you like that. I know it was dirty-“

“I don’t care about any of that.” Modi cuts in sharply. “Seidr is outlawed here. Do you know what would have happened if Iver was just a little more brighter? He would’ve known something was happening. He would’ve reported you. You would’ve hanged. And father would be implicated. The people would ask themselves: _‘how did his bastard have such strong seidr? Surely, King Thor isn’t a witch. Surely, his whore isn’t a witch either?’_ But then they would realize one of those things have to be true, and they would realize it was his whore, and then father would be vilified. They would want his head on a stick. Did you even stop to think about that?”

Atla backs away, his eyes unsure and guilty. “I-I didn’t-“

“You didn’t what? You didn’t think? I think it’s pretty obvious you _didn’t _think-“

“I just didn’t want to get hurt!” Atla explodes. “I felt cornered. It just surged out. I can’t – I can’t always control it.”

Modi stares at him, incredulous. “You can’t always control it?” he repeats. “That burning feeling that made me almost knock out – you can’t control it? Do you know how dangerous that is?” Modi is angry, feels his face tightening, feels himself baring his teeth, canines glinting in the light, a perfect snarl. “For all of us?”

Atla’s eyes are glassy.

_Perfect_, Modi thinks. _Just perfect. Just a little bit of yelling and he starts crying like a baby._

“I didn’t want to come here, you know.” Atla spits out, an angry flush to his cheeks. “I didn’t want to live in this depressing castle, where everybody smiles and nobody says what they mean.” Atla pauses, gives a humorless laugh. “Except for your friends of course, and all the other children of the court. At least they call me a bastard to my face.”

“You think this is hard for you?” Modi asks incredulous, furious. “Do you know how it is to walk among the court, have all eyes on you, and know that they know and that everybody else knows that you were not enough? That you, as a son, were not enough, so much so that your father had to go have another son with a whore? Huh? Do you? _Do you know it feels not be enough?”_

Atla laughs manically in response. “I face a lifetime of humiliation and degradation, and you - you _whine_ about not being enough?” Atla sneers. “You are prince. You are next in line for the crown. No one dares disrespect your name. You have the whole word at your fingertips, so do not talk to me about hardships, _little prince_. Do not cry to me of not having enough. I know more about that than you ever will.”

Atla snarls at him, then pushes his way past Modi, leaving him alone in the stables.


	9. The Genius of the Crowd

_No one heard a single word you said_

_They should have seen it in your eyes_

_What was going 'round your head_

_*_

Modi doesn’t really talk to Atla after that. He’s sees Atla every day, has the same classes with him all day, sees him more than he sees his father or his mother or his friends but still they do not talk to one other. They did all the talking they needed to that day in the stables.

Atla will never be Modi’s brother. He will never be his family.

Thor showers his bastard with affection. His favor does not go unnoticed. Most bastards are not educated as well as Atla is, but Thor has put Atla in every class that Modi is in – classes that are meant to prepare one for the throne. While such classes used to be only him and his tutors, private one on one sessions, it is now Modi, Atla, and his tutors.

Atla is unexpectedly smart. It kills Modi to say it, but it’s true. It also makes sense. Atla’s delicate features make him useless in any kind of physical labor, so it only seems given he be good in academics. It’s infuriating sometimes. Their tutor will ask them questions on politics or geography and Atla will always have his hand raised first, will always have some thoughtful commentary on the history between Surtr and Furtr, or remark upon policies that could help fight the famine in Jotunheim. He also often goes off on tangents about Vanir, gushes on and on about their openness with racial mixing, such as the Vanir with Dwarfish peoples, and so on and so forth, while Modi can barely answer a question on whether Heimdall’s mother was Eistla or Angeyja (the correct answer is, of course, answered by Atla: Heimdall had nine mothers).

The tutors may not say anything, they might not be vocal about it, and they might not indicate it in actions or otherwise, but grudgingly, secretly, they love Atla. They love his eagerness, they love the way he raises his hand, they love the way he loves to learn, the way he answers questions like opening candy. In the secret corners of their heart, Atla is the star pupil. But they do not express this because they know he is just a bastard and not the Crown Prince. The favor they must curry is Modi's. So they pretend not to love him they pretend he is not the star pupil they pretend his raised hands annoy them and their pretending annoys Modi.

_Every one of them looks at me and sees a Crown. They see their future. They see their fate. They see my hands putting gold into their pockets and so they smile at me with open faces and closed hearts. All of them are liars. And all of them care not for me but my title. They do not see me as a person._

Sometimes during tests, Modi will look at Atla. At first, he only looked to cheat. Atla would get back papers and tests with perfect scores, words written across the top like _‘exemplary work.’_ Modi would get back the same papers, with mediocre scores, and gushing words of praise that were superfluous and empty. He used to think he was smart. He was certainly smarter than Iver and the rest of them. But being in Atla’s presence shows him there is difference between smart and genius. And Atla is genius exemplified. He’s a prodigy. He works wonders in every paper that he writes, and every test that he takes, and every raised hand and every commentary. Modi sees that, and he envies it, and he needs it, so he starts to copy off Atla during tests.

He doesn’t copy often. It would be too obvious. And it’s not like Modi’s stupid; he doesn’t _need _to copy. Atla’s approach to things is unique and distinct. Modi only copies on subjects he finds especially fastidious to learn or memorize. But he copies enough. Enough to memorize Atla’s profile. The elegant slope of his nose and his eyes that are not quite green or blue and his hair that looks like water passing over an onyx stone and lashes so long they kiss his cheeks. There is something frighteningly delicate about Atla. The way his skin is a white so translucent Modi can see the blood working under his wrists.

_If I dropped him on the marble floor of Thrudheim he would crack_, Modi thinks.

But appearances are deceiving.

Modi knows Iver has a mean streak longer than the Dovrefjell mountain range. He has seen it in action. Modi also knows it stems from the fact that Iver wants the kind of power Modi has, the kind of position, the kind of authority, and not having it, takes it out on others, puts himself in positions of authority where he can.

Iver knows he holds more authority than Atla. And he exploits that.

Modi at first thinks it’s just words. He doesn’t bother involving himself in happenings of the children of the court. They have petty skirmishes and petty drama and Modi doesn’t care about any of it. He knows the children of the court don’t like Atla. He knows that they think he’s fair game, because he’s a bastard, and because Modi doesn’t like him, and therefore there is no protection for him anywhere. He knows that they think Atla is strange, with his girl-not-quite-boy face, and his porcelain skin that could never be achieved in Asgard. Modi knows they bully him. He just doesn’t know the extent to which they do until he sees it in action.

Modi is with Iver and Bjorn and Hilde in the courts gardens. Some other children of the court are there as well. They fool around in the grass while Modi sits with his back to one of the trees, eyes heavy and tired. Linguistics of Dwarvish Sprak was especially trying that day, though Atla had somehow remained enthusiastic and eager throughout the whole class. Hilde giggles and pushes up against his shoulder and Modi forces himself not to bat her away like a fly. Iver and Bjorn play with the other boys pretending to be knights.

It is unfortunate that Atla chooses that moment to wander into the gardens.

Iver stops in the middle of knighting Durdren to give a slow, wicked, smile. He grins at Bjorn and the other boys. Modi watches warily.

“A bastard has come to take the crown.” Iver raises his wooden sword, points it at Atla. “What say you, bastard?”

Atla glares, his hands full of books. He shifts awkwardly. “Iver, I don’t have time for your stupid games today. I have a test to study for.”

“The bastard thinks he will further himself by studying books. He thinks he will win the crown that way. What say you, Sir Bjorn?”

Bjorn gives an easy smile. “I say the bastard is a swot who only engages himself in the womanly arts.”

Iver explodes with laughter. So do the other boys. Besides him, Hilde gives a grand bark of laughter. Modi stays silent, and watches.

Atla’s face is coloring, the same deep red on his cheeks as the roses that surround him. Atla always looks most like a girl when he flushes. It’s unfortunate for him. It gives more ammo for the other boys to tease him with.

“Right.” Atla says, voice tight. “Go on, make fun of me.” His feline eyes are narrowed, flash bright like a warning. “You like calling me a bastard because it makes you feel like you’re better than me. Like you’re more powerful. When everybody here knows you do it to cover up your inferiority. When everybody here knows that the truth is you follow Prince Modi’s every word like it’s the law. That you’re a dog and he’s your master.”

Silence. An uncomfortable shift in the atmosphere. Eyes that look warily at one another. Bjorn glancing at Iver cautiously. Iver a furious shade of red.

“You dare – you dare call _me_ a dog? You, who is _worse_ than a dog, who is the son of a _whore_, whose existence was a mistake - you who was created in those vile and dirty secret shadows, who was birthed in shame, **_you dare call me a dog?_** You dare equate me to such a low being? When you yourself are the _lowliest_ being!”

Iver slaps Atla hard across the face, and Atla falls to the ground, books scattering everywhere. He is on top of Atla, straddling him, sending punch after punch, and the children of the court are circled around them, cheering and yelling.

Iver raises his fist to strike again and Atla spits blood in his eye. He’s grinning wildly.

“Show me a trick, dog!” He says, and Iver roars, brings his fist down like a rock, and Modi can hear the wet crack of cartilage breaking. He’s raising his fist again when Modi decides steps in.

He grabs Iver’s arm before it can reach its mark.

“That’s enough.” Modi says calmly.

Iver looks up at him with incredulous eyes. “But Modi-!“

“He’s a bastard. He’s not worth it.”

Modi put its in the best way he can. His goal isn’t to humiliate Iver. It’s just to get him to stop. He knows ordering him is not the best way to do it, but rather appealing to his higher station.

It works. Iver huffs. He stands up and spits at the ground next to Atla’s head, and shows him his knuckles.

“Look at this.” He says, voice full of revulsion. “You got your dirty bastard blood all over my hands. Disgusting.”

Snickers from the crowd. Iver turns to walk away, and Atla can’t help but have the last word.

“That’s right,” he spits out, teeth covered in blood. “Walk away, doggie. Do what Master Modi tells you to do. What a _good boy_ he has.” Atla sneers.

Iver turns around, furious once again, murder in his eyes, and Modi doesn’t think, he just acts.

“**_Iver I said that was_** **_enough_**,” He says sharply, and the command is not lost on Iver, or Atla, or anyone.

Iver pauses stiffly. His eyes are dark with loathing when he looks at Modi, but he quickly blinks away the emotion with an expressionless mask.

“Of course, _my liege_.” Iver mocks, face still serious, but tone like burning acid. He knocks into Modi on his way out, sneers in his ear –

“Have fun with your bastard brother. If you’re not careful he’ll be the only friend you have left.”

As if Modi cares. As if Modi likes any of them, really. The others follow Iver away, Bjorn not even

bothering to look back at Modi the way Hilde does, before finally they’re all gone.

Modi turns to look at Atla still on the ground. His nose is broken. It feels like karma. There’s blood all over his face.

_Such a delicate thing. And yet he always begs to be broken._

“You know they wouldn’t bother you so much if you ignored them. Or didn’t talk back. The way you act is just asking for trouble.” Modi says plainly, still looking down at Atla.

Atla looks up at him with burning eyes, with an expression that says he’s stupid.

“You think I didn’t try that first?” Atla snarls. “That I didn’t ignore them or refuse to pick up the bait? Of course I did. But they still bothered me anyway. So what’s the point of staying silent if they’re going to hurt me anyway? I might as well give as good as I get.” He spits out.

That’s when Modi notices the other bruises on Atla’s arms, some fading, some in the process of it, some on his face as vague outlines. This isn’t the first time it’s happened, Modi realizes. It’s just the first time Modi’s seen it in action.

He blinks. “I thought they were just teasing you. Playing harmless pranks. He stares at a fading bruise underneath Atla’s chin. “I didn’t know…”

“What? That they were beating me up?” Atla says spitefully. He laughs. “How stupid are you? You know Iver craves the power you have. You know he’s jealous of you. If he can’t be prince, then what’s better than lording his power over a bastard boy who _could’ve_ been prince?”

Modi narrows his eyes. “Are you blaming me? If you don’t remember, I’m the only reason you aren’t in pieces right now.”

“You made me fair game when you tried to kill me in the ring. You made it obvious you didn’t like me. You made it clear there would be no consequences if someone wanted to hurt me.”

“I wasn’t trying to make anything clear.” Modi snaps back. “I just wanted to put you in your place. You act like I owe you something. Like we’re actually brothers.”

Atla flinches back. He hasn’t spent enough time around the children of the court, because when he speaks, Modi knows it’s a lie.

“I’ve never once – not ONCE – thought of you as a brother.” Atla bites back, seething, voice thick with emotion. He stands up on his own, not even bothering to pick up his books, and walks away with his head held up, visibly prickling from the attack on his pride.

After that, Modi notices.

When he cheats off Atla during tests, or when he’s struck by the way the sunlight makes his eyes shine emerald, his eyes often wander further, to find fading bruises underneath his eyes, or split lips, or cuts on his knuckles from fighting. Modi used to think the reason Atla left so quickly from class was because he was in a rush to get somewhere, but now he realizes it was not to get caught by Iver and his gang, who frequently loiter outside Modi’s classes after theirs are over.

He finds himself annoyed at Loki.

_‘I can see everything. So if you dare harm my son in anyway while he’s here – just know that laws like spells are useless against me.’_

What utter crockpot. _If that was the case, then why is it that your son is being harmed in every way imaginable and you’re not doing a thing about it? Why is it falling to me to make sure he isn’t killed? Is it because the threat only applied to me?_

Modi figures Loki has been keeping an eye on him, and only him, figuring him to be primary source of trouble. Too bad he didn’t think to keep an eye on the other children of the court, who have much more time on their hands than Modi, and who are crueler in their abundance of it.

Then again, it could be that Loki is too busy to keep an eye on anyone other than Modi. Though the rest of the kingdom believe Thor’s whore to be locked in her tower, a women of wickedly ensnaring beauty who never leaves the west wing, the truth is that she is right in front of their faces.

A couple of days after Thor brought Loki and Atla to Thrudheim, he appointed Loki to the highest position in the _Curia regis_, the royal court, as advisor to the King. It turned heads. No one knew who this foreign man was, and how he had earned Thor’s trust so quickly. All they knew now was that his authority was only second to that of the King’s, and that they should not cross him. Modi often saw them together in the halls, Loki almost his father’s height, except more slight, with a constant smirk and mischievous eyes. They were often side by side, heads close together, looking at some scroll or another.

Modi didn’t understand. He didn’t understand how a whore could be an advisor to a king. He didn’t understand what it was about Loki that made his father give him everything. He didn’t know anything about Loki. He didn’t know anything about his history with his father. He didn’t understand how a whore could achieve so much power in so little time.

_Who is he? When did he meet my father?_

Modi didn’t know anything. But neither did Loki. Because while father’s whore made plans with Thor to conquer realms, his bastard was slowly getting beaten down by the children of the court. Iver, after Modi had yelled at him, became crueler.

The next time Modi would see Atla he would be trying to run away.

*

_Oh, he's a little runaway_

_Daddy's boy learned fast_

_All those things he couldn't say_


	10. He's a Little Runaway

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> atla will alternate between pronouns for Loki because to him loki is genderless, both a man and a woman. therefore she/he will be used interchangeably when it comes to Loki

Atla misses class.

Atla never misses class.

It’s Modi’s first hint that something’s wrong. His second hint is that after his class is over Iver and his gang are nowhere to be seen. They haven’t waited for him like they usually do. Modi does the math in his head.

_If Iver isn’t here, and Atla isn’t here, then that means, somewhere, right now, in this very castle, absolute Hel is being unleashed._

Modi skips his next class. He knows if Iver somehow winds up accidentally killing Atla, Loki will blame Modi for it. And Modi is too young to die by the hands of a whore.

Modi tries the abandoned horse stables first, a then one of the abandoned barnyards: both popular places for Iver and his prey of the day. Still, Modi sees no sign of Iver or Atla. It’s only when he’s heading back to Thrudheim that he catches sight of Iver and his gang, obviously hassling him over something.

“I thought you said you had it under control.” One of the older boys say, mocking Iver.

Snickers all around at that, Iver’s face scrunched up in annoyance. Bjorn, quietly:

“You had him. Why’d you let go?”

“I could’ve sworn…”

“You could’ve sworn what?” Says the same older boy again, sneering. Politics of the children of the court. None of them are really friends. All of them are always looking at ways to usurp the other. “That he was weaker than you? Because obviously that wasn’t the case.”

Iver turns around in a fury, his face pressed against the other boy.

“Why don’t you shut up, Mikkel? You have a big mouth but when it comes to actual fighting you act like you don’t have hands. Unless you want to disprove that right now?”

Iver and Mikkel are locked in a death stare, until Mikkel balks and looks down at his feet without a word.

Iver scoffs in disgust. “Thought so.” He turns to face the rest of his contingent with a fierce glare. “And if the rest of you are still questioning me – that whore’s son burned me. I don’t know how, but he did.”

“Iver,” Bjorn starts carefully, “I know we were in the blacksmith’s forge but – I didn’t see him pick anything up.”

“That’s because you weren’t looking good enough.” Iver snaps back. “He burnt me and that’s why I let go. Not because he was stronger than me, not because I was weak, but because that filthy bastardly dreg tricked me.”

“Not before you broke his face in, though.” One of the boys snickers, and Iver flashes a quick, smug smile.

“Yeah.” He says, grinning wickedly. “Not before that.”

“Where is he now?” Modi asks, walking out of the shadows.

Many of the boys jump in surprise, including Iver.

He raises an eyebrow at Modi, eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Don’t tell me you care about your bastard brother now, Modi. What? Did his feminine ways ensnare you?”

The other boys laugh and whistle while Iver looks on arrogantly. Modi just stares blankly in response, not all embarrassed by what Iver is trying to imply.

“I care because if you just killed that bastard boy then my father - the king, may I remind you - will likely kill me and everyone involved. Didn’t you know?” It is Modi’s turn to raise an eyebrow, mock incredulous. “Father loves that bastard more than me. I know you all certainly talk about it enough behind my back – so why are you surprised to hear me say it out loud?”

Iver and the rest of the boys pale drastically. Bjorn is the only one brave enough to speak up, an anxious look on his face.

“We left him on the edge of the Black Forest.”

Modi’s eyes darken considerably. “You left him? Do you mean to tell me he’s already dead?”

“He was still breathing when we left.” Bjorn replies helplessly.

Modi curses under his breath. “_Fools_.” He snarls, voice like a whip. “All of you. You better pray to Valhalla that he’s still alive when I get there.”

Modi pushes past Iver and makes his way back the way he came, to the forest and not Thrudheim. When the edges of the forest come into view so does a dark blot in the distance – Atla – who disappears into the woods. Modi runs. For a second when he enters the Black he thinks he’s lost Atla, but he quickly finds him again, sprinting in his direction and grabbing onto his shoulder before he can go any further.

Atla whips around, a snarl on his lips, that quickly drops into glare when he sees it’s only Modi. He shoves Modi’s hand off of him.

“What are you doing here?” Atla snaps.

Atla’s eyes are wild. They match the dark green of the foliage not touched by the sun. He has blood on his teeth and his nose is crooked – again. His left eye is also swelling into a dark and worrisome shade of purple. But Atla does not seem otherwise concerned.

“That should be my question.” Modi replies back through gritted teeth. “Where in the Hel do you think you’re going?”

Atla’s face goes blank. He looks at Modi, then looks away.

“I’m running away.” He replies plainly, as if just stating the weather, or what he had eat that day.

Modi feels a shock of alarm run through him. He grabs Atla by the wrist, yanking him towards him.

“Are you crazy?” He snarls.

Atla hisses and pulls away, Modi realizing too late there are bruises on his wrists as well.

“Am I crazy? Crazy?” Atla asks, incredulous. “This is the sanest decision I’ve ever made in my life. Everyday I spend in that horrible palace is another day that I’m closer to dying. It’s not as if _you_ would understand.” Atla sneers.

“What do you think is gonna happen to me if you leave, Atla? Who do you think Thor is gonna blame? Who do you think your mother – _a murderous witch who despises me_ – is going to blame? You think he’s gonna blame Iver? The other children of the court? No. _Your mother is going to blame me.”_ Modi growls.

Atla just laughs in response, eyes manic. “And you think I care _why?_ Because you’re my brother? Because I owe you?” Dark eyes glitter back at Modi. “You made it clear neither one of those statements is true, _your highness_.” Atla replies, tone mocking.

“You’re coming back with me whether you like it or not, bastard.” Modi spits.

“Oh yeah? And how are you gonna make me?” Atla sneers spitefully, eyes angry. “We’re in the woods, little prince. Nobody is around. There’s no reason for me to hide my seidr anymore. I could shatter your bones with a flick of my hand.” He replies, voice dark and full of warning.

_Fucking Hel. He’s right_, Modi thinks. He stares Atla down, but when it becomes clear he isn’t going to do anything, Atla snorts and turns around, continuing on his way.

Modi has little choice left. He could fight Atla to stay, and wind up in pieces, or he can go back to Thrudheim to face Loki, and wind up in pieces. Either way, he ends up nothing more than a broken puppet.

Modi watches Atla’s small back, and makes a decision.

_At least this way I have more time to convince him to turn back. And the whore won’t be able to kill me._

With one last look at Thrudheim, Modi turns and follows Atla deeper into the woods.

XXX

“Go home, little prince. You aren’t cut out for this.” Atla snaps.

“Oh and you are?” Modi replies incredulously, staring pointedly at the scratches on Atla’s delicate hands from holding back the branches in the thicket.

Atla flushes. “Yeah well, the trees aren’t so dense in the Deadwood.” He complains.

Modi rolls his eyes. “That’s because it’s a dead wood – there are hardly any trees because they’re all dying.”

“Don’t treat me like an idiot!” Atla fumes. “You think I don’t see you copy off me during our tutoring sessions?”

Modi snorts. “Don’t flatter yourself – I only copy on some of those subjects because I’m too lazy to learn them myself – _not_ because I’m stupid.”

This time it is Atla’s turn to roll his eyes.

“You could’ve fooled me.”

Modi seethes inwardly. “Oh and you’re so smart? Running away into the woods with nothing but the clothes on your back?

“Oh and you’re so smart?” Atla mimics in a petulant voice. “Following the supposed idiot into the woods with nothing but the clothes on your back as well?”

Modi glares. “You left me no choice. It was either stay back and be murdered by your mother for losing you or follow you with nothing and rely on my wits to survive. And I have very good wits about me, thank you very much.” Modi spits out acidly.

Atla scoffs. “Yeah we’ll see about that. One night in the forest and you’ll miss your plush satin bed made out of golden goose feathers.”

Modi smiles nastily. “One night on the forest floor with that baby skin of yours and you’ll be crying for the West wing.” He replies.

Atla flushes. “I do not have baby skin!” He replies indignantly, and after that they lapse into silence for a while, before Modi speaks up again.

“I don’t understand.” He says quietly. “Why didn’t you just tell Loki what happened? Surely your mother could’ve sorted things out easily. If no army in all the nine realms is a threat to him, surely putting some childish boys in their place is like breathing to him. He doesn’t even have to think about it.”

Atla is quiet for a while ahead of him, and right when Modi’s given up hope that he will reply, he does.

“That’s precisely why I didn’t want to say anything.” Atla says. His back is facing Modi, and Modi can’t see the expression on his face when he continues. “My mother is…vicious. If I had told my mother what was happening, it would’ve ended in a lot more than bruises. And…” Here Atla hesitates, like he isn’t sure he wants to tell Modi, but Modi pushes him.

“And?” He asks impatiently.

“…and I didn’t want to seem weak.” Atla finally gives up grudgingly. “I didn’t want to disappoint my mother. I know the obstacles she had to face growing up were greater than mine, and she was powerful enough and clever enough not to need seidr to solve them. I want a power like that.” He says.

And thinks, quietly in his mind, _I want a strength like yours_.

Modi is oblivious to Atla’s secret thoughts. He instead runs over the words Atla’s spoken, and finds, grudgingly, that he can understand the sentiment. Modi is the same type of stubborn. He holds a great pride. He abhors looking weak in front of his father.

Still, he does not want to spend a night in the forest, so he lies instead.

“That’s the stupidest thing I have ever heard.” He barks out. “Just rat on Iver and them to your mother and be done with it.”

Atla stops dead in his tracks and spins around on his heel, face furious.

“You know what’s the stupidest thing I ever heard?” He snarls. “All the pathetic drivel that streams out of your mouth constantly! Now shut up or go home!”

Atla turns back on his heel, and Modi resentfully follows.

XXX

When night falls it is too dangerous to keep walking because Modi and Atla can’t see where they’re going so they set up camp.

Modi says set up camp, but really no setting up happens. They just pick a spot and try to get comfortable, with nothing but the dirt to sleep on. They sit far apart from each other.

Modi looks distastefully at the dead squirrels he caught in the traps he set up before sunset. Though he’s gone hunting many times before with his father, and is well versed in such snares, he doesn’t have a flint to start a fire. So that means he’ll have to eat the squirrels raw. While the idea is unappetizing, and more than a little unsafe, it’s better than starving.

Of course, it wouldn’t be a problem if Atla would invite him over to the fire he started with his seidr, but he hasn’t, and Modi would rather die than ask, so he doesn’t. Of course, if Atla did invite him over, Modi would be liable to sharing his meat, but otherwise he’s not going to give him any of his catch, and Alta doesn’t ask, so it’s a pointless idea anyway.

So Modi eats his disgustingly raw meant, shivering and cold, and Atla’s stomach growls as he secretly watches Modi eating, warm and comfortable, but starving, and neither one of them is happy, and neither one of them will be happy for a very long time.


	11. Golden Cage

Being the son of a baron is not impressive feat.

Being the son of a highly in debt baron even less so.

Iver knows this. Iver knows his place is one that is irrelevant in the grand scheme of things, and that he is just another faceless son in a multitude of sons who live in the palace.

Prince.

Now that is not an irrelevant title.

_Only_ prince even less so.

Modi has everything in the world and he doesn’t even have to ask for it. How wonderful it must be, to lead a life like that? Iver thinks about this a lot -

How it must be to live the life of Modi Thorson.

Of course, one look at Modi and you might think it wasn’t incredible at all. Never mind the fact that everyone in the King’s court wants to be his friend. Never mind the fact there are a million squares and streets in Asgard named after him. Never mind the fact that he is a heir to riches and a throne more powerful than any in all the nine realms. No, never mind all that, Modi Thorson still has the face as if he doesn’t care for any of it at all.

Modi Thorson looks at the world with glass eyes. You know who else has glass eyes?

Dolls.

Modi Thorson has a face that looks like he’s never ached for something in his whole life. He has seen the world and he is bored of it already.

_How nice it must be, to be Modi Thorson._

Iver has never had that luxury. Iver has to be more, all the time, just to get the basic things Modi doesn’t even blink an eye at. Iver has to be smarter than everyone. Funnier. Faster. More clever.

Iver becomes friends with Modi because that’s how power works.

_You want to be powerful? Surround yourself with the powerful._

Modi, in general, is not an awful person. It’s not his fault, really, that Iver hates him so much. Modi treats him just fine.

But it’s the way he gets things so easily, and brushes things off so thoughtlessly, that Iver can’t help but hate him.

_(and to be honest, who **doesn’t** hate modi for all the things he has?)_

Like that time with the prank on Heimdall that Modi forgot about. Iver had been annoyed, but he didn’t get really angry until Modi used that tone on him.

His _prince_ tone. The one that booked no discussion.

And then, even worse, when he defended the bastard out of all people. Commanded Iver in front of all their peers to _stop_.

_How degrading. How absolutely humiliating_.

Iver may hate Modi most in his heart, but he holds a spot there for the bastard as well. A small part, but still.

When you live your life bending yourself over for someone in a higher station, you expect anyone below you to do the same. This is how it works in the court. Even infants know this. Surely, even their children’s games are already fraught with politics.

The bastard doesn’t know this.

The bastard, Atla, does as he likes. He does not have doll eyes. He has eyes full of fire and reproach and a million other things Iver would never in a lifetime be able to name.

_(all Iver has in him is hunger, and ambition, and jealousy)_

Atla is a strange boy. Atla is thin and pale and has the darkest hair Iver has ever seen. No Asgardian looks like this boy. This alone should make him afraid, the differences that make him stand out, that make him _other_.

But still Atla doesn’t know when to shut up. Doesn’t know how to keep his clever observations to himself and tell everyone how Iver is Modi’s dog.

_(because sometimes you have to bend to power, if you yourself are not powerful)_

So Atla pays for this. Every day. The children of the court back Iver, even if Modi doesn’t. Though he may only be the son of a lowly baron, Iver has strong fists, and a strong jaw to match. Not a lot of things can break him.

The day they leave Atla at the edge of the Blackwood is the day Iver acknowledges he has gone too far. A bastard is a bastard, but this is a _King’s _bastard.

And then both Modi and Atla disappear, and Hel is unleashed.

King Thor calls everyone into the throne room. His face is tight with anger, but he otherwise sits on his throne completely silent.

The surprise is the whore.

It is the first time anyone has ever seen her. She stands on the other side of Thor, her green eyes twin stars full of fire.

It is unheard of. It is unsightly. For a whore to be standing alongside the King. For a whore to be standing over him. For a whore to be here at all.

Iver stares at her, entranced.

_They said she was the most beautiful women in all nine realms._

_They were right._

Bjorn, besides him, equally entranced whispers

“Her name is Ase. It’s old norse for God-like.”

And certainly, though it is sacrilegious to say so, Thor’s mistress looked like a God in that throne room, above them all.

Her hair was so dark it seemed like a quilt of the night sky upon her head. Iver had never seen hair so big, or with so many curls before, each falling upon her back and shoulders in loose ringlets. She wore no jewelry, no finery on her fingers, but it seemed her face was enough – enough of a jewel itself to forget about such frivolities.

Her skin was like moonlight, and looked just as soft – a sharp contrast to the sun kissed skin of every Asgardian in the room. She had no ample bosom either, like most Asgardian women, or as many curves, but certainly, there was a beauty to her, with her cat eyes the color of emeralds, and her fine jaw, and bowed lips, and

_Her presence_. Her sheer presence, stronger than any women’s Iver had ever known, save for Queen Sif.

_(and yet – even sif had never stood while thor sat. never towered over him in such a disrespectful way. was obedient to her husband like every other Asgardian woman)_

“My son is missing.” She looked upon them all, her eyes hard. “And so is the prince.”

Titters. Small gasps. Whisperings.

_How dare she? How dare she refer to the prince as an after-thought?_

But King Thor said nothing. Offered no rebuke.

“Of course, maybe I was not clear. The _bastard_ is missing.”

Shocked gasps. That even a whore would refer to her son as a bastard.

“Surprised? Why? Isn’t that what you all call him? Isn’t that what your sons and daughters call him? While they tease him and belittle him and hurt him? Did you think I didn’t know? You all call him that, as if he didn’t have a name. _Atla_. That’s his name.”

Ase paused, and there was silence. This seemed to infuriate her more.

“_Well?_ SAY IT! SAY HIS **NAME**!”

Such command in her voice. It rumbled through the throne room like thunder, harsh and unforgiving. It felt like the ceiling had even trembled for a moment.

_(you have no choice, when confronted with gravity. you bend to it)_

“ATLA!”

Even Iver said it. Even Bjorn. Even all the kids who had joined them in harassing the bastard for the past month. Even Iver’s father, who was half drunk, and half asleep as a consequence, said it as if possessed, eyes more awake than Iver had ever seen them.

Meanwhile, the Hel in Ase’s eyes settled a little bit.

“Good,” she said, voice still sharper than glass. “That’s very good. Get used to my son’s name, because that’s all you will be calling him now. Not bastard. Not whoreson. But Atla.” Ase’s eyes narrowed. “I care little for the names you call me. For the names you will call me after this meeting is adjorned. I just want to let you all know – my son is missing, and I know there is a reason. And when I find out that reason, that the reason is because of a noble, or a noble’s son, or a noble’s daughter, or all three - when I find out the reason,” and here Ase’s eyes went bright again, like hellfire, her voice deadly –

_“The reason will pay.”_

Tremors. A deep cold seemed to overtake the throne room. Everyone shifted uncomfortably, faces paler than anyone’s should be in a kingdom ruled by the sun.

Ase’s green eyes roved over the room, sharper than any knife. When they passed Iver, a shiver overtook him.

There was fear, yes, in the face of Ase’s deadly gaze; but even greater than the fear was the feeling that he wanted Ase’s eyes on him again.

-

That night, Gunhild, Iver’s father, deep in his cups, speaks to him.

“That woman…” He drawls.

Iver’s pulse jumps. “As – I mean, the King’s whore?”

Gunhild stares at him for a second before laughing. “Why, you are bewitched like the rest of them! Haha! Yes…bewitched.” Gunhild muses. “What an appropriate term to use…”

“What do you mean?”

Iver stares at his father warily. He is rarely a talkative man – at least, around Iver he isn’t.

Gunhild is strangely subdued. “You wouldn’t know…you wouldn’t understand.”

But this only makes Iver even more curious.

“Tell me, father, what is it?”

Gunhild chuckles condescendingly. “You wouldn’t know…because you weren’t alive then. It seems, almost, that no one remembers these days. The days when King Thor was just a prince, among many princes. And Odin ruled the land like a conqueror, burning, and killing, and whoring his way across every realm. Thirteen brothers, King Thor had,” Gunhild tells him, something dark in his eyes.

“…And thirteen brothers he killed, for the throne.”

Iver feels like ice water has been thrust in his veins.

“You’re lying.” He says, voice barely a whisper.

_Surely, Thor, like Modi, had everything already in his hands. Surely._

Gunhild shrugs passively. “No lie there, son. Look it up in any library, and the texts will show it. Of course it is not advertised, nor really talked about, and most people have forgotten but…it’s there. All of it.”

Iver splutters. “But how can that be? That’s barbaric.”

“That’s how it was, back then.”

“What, was there no line of succession?”

Gunhild looks at Iver, incredulous, before laughing. “Line of succession? Asgard wasn’t even a kingdom then! It was **_Hel_**. And the princes were like vipers in a nest. Odin cared for none of them. He raised them like wild things. When it came to the throne, he only said it would go to the strongest. The one who wanted it the _most_.”

“But!-But-!”

Gunhild laughs again. “And to think, everyone thought it was Tyr who would be King! Not to get it wrong – he was a strong boy. And a dangerous man. Built like a Jotunheim Giant that one, as expected of his parentage, and with a mind for battle better than most. He was the oldest out of all thirteen, besides his twin, and had been a great asset to Odin. He was ambitious, and he was mean, but –“

And the fire dies inside of Gunhild’s eyes dies again. Becomes more muted. Pensive.

“But Thor was more so. Thor, the middle child. No one ever bothered to remember the names of all thirteen of those bastard princes but they remembered Tyr’s. And Thor’s. The most powerful of Odin’s offspring. Thor always did give Tyr a run for his money…”

Iver feels like his brain is being drowned in information. There are many things he wants to ask, but most of all –

“I don’t get it. What does _As_-the whore have to do with this?”

Gunhild stares at Iver warily. He says

“None of those bastard princes had much of a heart for anything. Growing up the way they did, with their own brothers for enemies, well, it doesn’t give you a heart at all. They were cold, and they were mean, but most of all they were hungry. Hungry for the throne. And you could tell, that even from a young age, Thor and Tyr were the hungriest. There was no space in them for anything else.”

Iver pushes his father impatiently. “Yes, and?”

Gunhild’s eyes look like they’re far away. “…and there was this one time. This one time, Prince Thor, not King Thor, wanted something other than the throne. Back when he was a nobody. Back when nobody remembers him. There was a girl…”

Iver feels disappointed.

“Queen Sif?” He guesses, already bored with the story.

_How predictable._

Gunhild stares at him carefully. “No…a witch.”

Among all the garbage his father has spewed today, this has to be the worst.

“Impossible.” Iver spits, disgusted. “Everyone knows about the Massacre of Grimstad. Thor killed all of the witches there, set their cabins on fire and even dragged some of them on his horse naked, in a bucket full of nails. King Thor hates witches. Such treason would not be forgiven if you spoke of this to anyone else, father.”

Gunhild only laughs at Iver’s words, seemingly mocking him. “Treason? But it is true, child. You talk so proudly,” Gunhild sneers, “so much, and so desperate to be like them. You know of course, that I wasn’t born noble. That King Thor made me a baron. That before, I was a _lowly_ prison guard.”

Iver feels himself flush.

“Yes, well, back then, before you were alive, this _lowly_ father of yours spent all day in the dungeons. Back then, when I was nobody, and King Thor was nobody, there were whisperings that he had been bewitched in Grimstad, the first time he went. That he was unfocused, and seeing visions, and obsessed with a witch with hair the color of night. Prince Thor made wanted posters of this witch and posted them all over the kingdom, though now, strangely, I can barely recall the face that was there.”

“Jealously. Pure lies.” Iver lashes out, though he can’t help but be interested in his father’s story again. “Gossip of the court, surely, you understand now, father.”

“Yes,” Gunhild says distantly, “I thought so too. I thought so too…until the day they made a golden cage in the dungeons.”

Iver stares at Gunhild, uncomprehending.

“A golden cage? Surely, you imagined this, or saw wrong-“

“No.” Gunhild says, voice clearer than Iver’s ever heard it. “I remember. I remember wondering why. I remember my disbelief. A golden cage…for prince Thor’s silver girl.”

“But…” Iver continues, still stumped, “what use is a golden cage? How is it any different from any of the cells in the dungeon?”

Gunhild shakes his head, amused. “You misunderstand. It was not just gold, but dwarfish gold. Resistant to seidr, and therefore deadly to witches. How prince Thor even _afforded _it is beyond my imagining…”

Iver opens his mouth, closes it, and then opens it again. He has no words. He doesn’t know what to say. Gunhild is a useless father, and a drunk since his mother died, but never has he known him to be a liar.

“The witch escaped of course, somehow,” Gunhild continues, “and I never saw her face, but I wonder. I wonder…if the King’s whore…and that girl…aren’t one and the same. I wonder,” Gunhild says, eyes full of morbid curiosity, “if the King’s whore not be a _witch_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the backstory between how loki and thor got together is veryyyy interesting. i wanted to show a glimpse of it in this :)))  
and no, thor did not grow up like in canon. he definitely did not have it easy.  
also, obvi, ase is loki. since thor's advisor is loki, his mistress has to have a different name.


	12. Delusion

Modi gets sick, obviously.

That first time he eats the raw meat he throws it all up in the middle of the night, so he feels better the next day. Still, there is nothing else for him to eat other than the animals he catches, because unlike Atla, Modi can’t differentiate hemlock from wild parsnips, or belladonna from blueberries. And of course, there is no other option for him except to eat it raw, because Atla has still not invited him to the warmth of his fire.

So Modi keeps on eating his raw meat, and he keep on throwing most of it all up, and so it goes like that for a few days, in silence, with Modi following Atla who knows where, until eventually his body decides he’s eaten one raw squirrel too many, and he collapses in the middle of the day with convulsions.

XXX

Modi goes to a different world.

It’s a dream world, he knows. It’s fake. It’s made out of shadows and smoke and the delusions of his brain. But mostly, memories.

There is the memory of his sixth birthday, the Jotunheim hunting hound father gifted him with.

Modi remembers being so proud. So honored. Jotunheim hunting hounds were especially notorious, the mothers almost crazed. Taking a pup from a litter couldn’t have been an easy task for Thor, who had left for official business, and really had no obligation to bring back a gift, but had done so anyway.

Modi had thought then

_He cares, he just doesn’t show it._

His father had not smiled when he handed Modi his gift.

Thrud, standing beside him, had been dangerously still, her eyes fixed on the pup.

In the flames of his birthday candles, she had been a shadow.

Modi had named the pup Thormo. A stupid name, made of his and his father’s. It was only a week before the pup showed up drowned in one of the bath tubs. Modi had cried. Thrud had looked at him with black glittery eyes, like an insect’s, sighed and said

“Well, you can’t have everything.”

Another memory, like smoke, rises behinds his eyes. His father’s birthday. Saving every kron he had to buy a dwarfish set of knives, then presenting them to Thor, anxiousness a hound with teeth in his stomach, tearing it apart, and his father’s eyes, the same blue as Jotunheim ice, unmoved.

_(years later, thor would give the knives to a dignitary as gift. doubtless, he never used them. doubtless, he wouldn’t even remember who gave them to him)_

Then there are other memories too, twisted, gnarled. Don’t go the way he remembers them.

Thrud in his room after she drowned his pup, her eyes two black holes, ants crawling out of them in hordes, her mouth stretching freakishly wide, and more pouring out, laughing the whole time.

Thrud, when she broke her porcelain doll, except this time the doll is Modi, and she throws him to the floor.

A different memory now – Sif, finding out Thrud could use seidr, that she practiced it, and then slapping her across the face. It was the only time Modi had ever seen Thrud cry. But this time, when Sif slaps her, she tears her nails into Thrud’s face, tears out an eye, and forces it down her throat.

Modi feels sick. Sif turns to him, her eyes glowing with a strange intensity, and says

“It wasn’t green. I wanted green.”

Modi runs from the room, is scared of the Sif with a blank face, and falls into another memory.

Thor is teaching him how to sword fight. It is the only time he will look on Modi’s lessons. After, he will hardly be bothered to.

“You’re grip is wrong.” Dream Thor says. For some reason, Thor’s face is blurry. Maybe it’s because growing up Modi didn’t see it often. Dream Thor continues, adds

“The pommel should be right above your belly button. You’re holding it too low right now.”

And so Modi fixes his grip on the sword, and Thor drives his into Modi’s chest.

Modi coughs up something wet. His mind goes blank with shock.

Modi can’t see Thor’s eyes clearly, but he can see his lower jaw, his lips as they thin.

“You’re supposed point the tip between the sternum and throat.” He says, sounding disapproving. “You did it wrong. Everything about you is wrong. I prayed to the Gods every night that you would die. That Sif would die.”

Jotunheim ice eyes stare back at him, cold and endless.

“Why didn’t you die?”

And Modi blinks, and when he opens his eyes he’s with his mother again, and they’re riding on horseback, secret, hoods over their faces, and she says

“Don’t tell your father about this.”

They’re at the town square, and there are pyres of wood, and three women attached to them, crying, sobbing, calling out to the crowd that only jeers and spits at their faces, and they are lit on fire, and Modi has never seen a person on fire before, has never heard the sound, the way the fire burns out their throats out as they scream, and the smell, oh the smell, has never known the smell of burning flesh till now, and Modi says, whispers really

“It’s horrible.”

And Sif says

“It’s what they deserve.”

XXX

It’s because of bacteria, Atla knows. That’s the reason Modi collapses. One cannot go so long eating raw meat without catching something, some parasite or worm that has breed it’s host wonderfully with maladies.

“You stupid fool,” Atla scolds, and Modi just moans painfully in response.

At first it’s a pain. Atla’s annoyed. He has to take care of Modi now, because Modi was too prideful to ask for help in the first place. But then, as the days pass, and Modi spends more days unconscious, sometimes almost seemingly dead, Alta becomes afraid. Feels a sense of dread fill him like the worst poison. If Modi dies, what will become of Atla, alone in the woods? Atla may know the various plants and herbs of the forest, and the foliage, and how to scrap by on it, but what about true danger? What about beasts or groups of bandits and outlaws? Surely, slavers come through here too; delicate children like Atla their most treasured bounty. As much as he hates to say it, Modi is stronger, and has more practice with a sword, and the kind of discipline and stamina a royal guard would have even if he is just a kid.

And even worse to think about, besides being alone – _If Modi dies, how will Atla ever get back to Thrudheim?_

Truth be told, if Modi had not come along with him, Atla probably would have turned back ages ago. He could survive easily on the natural bounty of the woods, his knowledge not being the problem, but he doesn’t like the dark quality of the forest. The vast emptiness scares Atla, who is so used to sleeping with his mama at night.

Atla cannot leave Modi. Other than his personal reasons, Modi is the the crown prince and no matter what Modi likes to claim otherwise, he is important to Thor - at least in a political sense. Atla has no wish to become the prince in his stead if he dies. If Modi dies, Atla is not sure what will become of him.

As such, Atla has no other option but to raise him back to health. He spends days trying to calm Modi’s fever, and sticks bark in his mouth whenever he has convulsions, so that he doesn’t bite his tongue off. He looks for herbs and plants that he knows help in such cases, and when they show lackluster results, Atla uses his seidr.

When you’re a child, using seidr is a tiring endeavor, and Atla is only eight. Such power is finite in his small hands. But it’s either save Modi, or be stranded forever, so Atla does his best to heal him. He sleeps next to him in anticipation of his needs, and to make sure he doesn’t bite off his tongue, and it is rather selfless of him, all of it, because sleeping next to Modi is a special type of hell, a hell where Modi screams and screams and calls for everyone _except_ his papa.

During one of his convulsions, Modi’s eyes open, and Atla feels a relief so strong go through him it feels like his stomach is an ocean with waves.

“Modi, you bastard, you’re alive!” Atla laughs.

But Modi’s eyes are blank and unseeing, something terrible in them, says in a broken voice, with cracked lips-

“It’s horrible.”

-before he slips back into unconscious, something toppling in the ocean of Atla’s stomach, something like a ship called hope under the tide of fear.

“Modi.” He tries. “Modi.” He tries again, slapping his cheeks. Atla is exhausted. He’s scared. There’s only so much seidr in his tiny body, and there’s only so much that seidr can do.

“Modi you can’t leave me!” He yells. “You can’t leave me here alone!”

There’s something wet on Atla’s cheeks, and he realizes he’s crying. He crawls towards Modi, who is older, and slighter bigger, wraps himself around him like a vine as he shakes with sobs, cries

“You can’t leave me! You _can’t_. I won’t let you.”

Atla prays to the Gods every night to let Modi live.


	13. Nightmares

After a few days, Modi’s fever breaks, and his convulsions stop, and he awakes to a sleeping Alta curled by his side.

Modi blinks, and stares the sight that is Atla sleeping. He looks so innocent, his long spider lashes kissing his cheeks. He looks like he couldn’t even hurt a fly. But that’s what spiders do, don’t they? Kill flies.

_So much danger_, Modi thinks to himself, _in such a small body._

He puts his head to his hands when he feels a bout of nausea fall upon him, and tries to remember the past few days, but finds he can’t really remember anything, save the feeling of burning up, and the ache in his throat from throwing up one too many times.

He stares at Atla once again, and a surge of memories sear through his brain, fast and bright.

_Atla, cleaning Modi’s face with a wet rag, no, his shirt, feeding him berries and other herbs, gently running his hands through Modi’s hair, and then Atla’s wet shirt again, cool on his fevered head, and then more berries and more herbs, water being dripped down his throat, Atla cleaning the vomit off his face, Atla helping him sit up so he can hurl, Atla running a gentle hand down his back, Atla, his eyes closed, hands steepled, muttering words over Modi like he’s praying, and_

_Atla, looking down at him, eyes filled with tears. _

_“You can’t leave me. You can’t. I won’t let you.”_

Modi stares at the delicate boy in shock.

_This bastard…saved me?_

Modi must make some type of noise because all of a sudden Atla’s eyes open, slowly at first, barely open at all, and then opening wide with shock when he sees Modi’s awake.

And then Modi’s arms are filled with 60 pounds of baby bird delicate bones.

“You woke up! And you don’t look terrible!” Atla screeches, arms wrapped around Modi’s neck. He backs up, places his hand on Modi’s forehead, adds “And your fever broke! I did it! I _actually_ did it!”

Atla moves his hand to touch other parts of Modi’s face, brows scrunched in concentration, when Modi clears his throat uncomfortably.

“You can get off of me now.”

And Atla flushes, like he always does when he’s angry or embarrassed, except this time instead of thinking it’s girlish and pathetic, there is a fleeting moment in Modi’s brain where he thinks

_Pretty._

And of course, quickly afterwards he thinks - Stupid. _Stupid. Stupid stupid stupid STUPID_

“Why were you sleeping next to me?” Modi says abruptly, trying to forget his previous thoughts.

Atla is still pink in the face and looks at Modi in an annoyed way that clearly says he doesn’t like the way he’s being interrogated. “I had to be nearby in case your fever came back again.” He huffs. “Or to make sure you didn’t choke on your vomit. You almost did last time I didn’t sleep with you.”

“Oh,” Modi replies, now the embarrassed one, and Atla picks up on it.

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah. _Oh_. Do you think I slept next to you because I wanted to? Are you bloody mental?”

“That’s not what I said.” Modi snaps, even though he was thinking it.

“But you were implying it.”

“You’re eight summers old what do you know of implication?” Modi sneers.

“And you’re ten summers old and somehow thought eating raw meat everyday was a good idea!” Alta yells, eyes scrunched up in anger. “So excuse me if I think age isn’t a prerequisite for intelligence, stupid!”

“Oh yes,” Modi says sarcastically, “call me stupid, that is very _mature_.”

Atla, not liking Modi’s tone, stands up in a fury, his small frame trembling like a wet rag in the wind. His eyes are shiny.

“You know what’s not very mature? The fact that you almost died. The fact that you almost left me.” Atla’s voice cracks. “Do you know how scared I was? Do you know how much it took, out of me, to save you? Do you?”

And Modi…Modi feels…_ashamed_. Looking at this boy he has decided to hate, this boy two years younger, with a baby face, and small shoulders, who’s only wrong was to be born – Modi feels ashamed. He didn’t even say thank you. His first response was to insult and degrade. To throw all of Atla’s hard work back into his face.

Atla should not be saving anyone. He’s a child. He has no title. But Modi is already ten summers old. He is a prince and one day future King. Modi should be the one doing the saving.

“Hey…” Modi starts awkwardly. “I didn’t mean –“

And then Atla, eight summers old, so thin the wind could carry him away, starts to cry, his whole body shaking horrendously with the sobs that wrack his frame.

“I was so scared…so…so…_scared._”

Modi is paralyzed. He has never seen a boy cry before. Iver, Bjorn, none of the boys of the court have ever cried in front of him. Modi himself can’t remember the last time he cried. Tears are a sign of weakness at Thrudheim and bred out of them from a young age. Modi has never met a boy so free and open with his expressions. So unashamed.

So of course Modi has no idea what to do. But when Modi’s lack of action only serves to make Atla cry harder (sitting there on a log, just gaping, like an idiot), he stands up and warily steps closer to the bastard, his arms outstretched stiffly, trying to mimic what mother used to do when Thrud had nightmares.

“There, there,” Modi says awkwardly, lightly patting Atla’s back, his arms stretched all the way out so his body is still as far away from Atla as possible. “There, there, bastard. I’m alive. You did a good job.”

And Atla throws himself into Modi’s arms, wrapping tight around him like a vine, Modi letting out a little ‘_oof_’ of surprise.

“I’m so happy you’re alive!” He wails irritatingly in Modi’s ear. “I p-prayed every night. I prayed to every G-God, _begging_, that you would live. You have _no_ idea how happy I am.”

And instead of being annoyed (as he should be) because Atla is getting tears and snot all over his shirt, and is crying like a banshee right in his ear, Modi feels…moved.

_I prayed to every God that you would live._

Modi feels something incredibly warm and light in his chest, something like awe, that his existence could mean so much to somebody that he barely even knows, when his existence to most is superficial at most.

-

After that, things are different. Not in a big way, not like they’re friends or anything, but they’ve realized the futility in being enemies.

Modi hunts and tracks game and Atla provides the fire and herbs. There are other things Atla’s seidr is useful for, obviously, but mostly they use it to start fires. Atla is also good at picking up berries and other wild sweet fruits that won’t poison them, so that’s a plus as well. Modi on the other hand navigates well in the woods, can find freshwater wherever they go, and knows the signs to steer clear of wild animals or bandits. They both have their talents, and they both need each other.

Sometimes (and this is embarrassing to admit) they even sleep together. The nights are cold, and while Modi was fully prepared to sleep it out, it was Atla who came to him first and told him not to be stupid – that they would stay warmer if they slept together and _“do you really think I have half the fat you do? Don’t be dull.”_

In summary, they’ve gotten into a pretty good routine where they’re able to tolerate each other, or at least Modi thinks so, but then Atla asks

“What were you dreaming about?”

It’s nighttime when Atla asks, and they’re both feasting on the cod Modi caught that day, sitting in their usual comfortable silence, so it surprises Modi that Atla speaks at all.

“What do you mean?”

Atla doesn’t look at him, still staring at the fire, but his posture is stiff, like he’s hesitant to ask.

“I just mean…” he starts quietly, “that when you were sick…you would scream a lot. It sounded like you were having nightmares.”

Modi feels himself bristle. “What, you mean you were spying on me?”

This time Atla can’t help but face him, anger evident on his features.

“_No_,” he spits out furiously, but when he sees the look on Modi’s face, he looks down again. “You know I had to sleep by you,” he mumbles. “And you’d have these horrible dreams where you’d just scream and scream…I mean, you even gave _me_ nightmares. And you’d call out for Queen – I mean – _your mother_, all the time, but never…uh…never Thor.”

“And?” Modi asks, looking Atla dead in the eye. “I never called out for Thor, so what? Your point is?”

Atla flinches back at Modi’s harsh tone, looks back down at the ground.

“I was just wondering,” he mutters.

They sit like that for a while, Modi still bristling, Atla looking like a kicked dog, until Modi can’t take it anymore.

_He didn’t mean it…in a bad way._ Modi thinks to himself. But it’s hard to get out of the mindset that Atla says everything he does to hurt him.

“Listen…” Modi starts. “You’re right. I did dream. I did…well, I had nightmares. As I’m sure you know.”

Atla perks up at Modi’s softer tone, his eyes endlessly curious.

“About monsters? Because I have dreams like that all the time. Once, I had a dream about a selkie who stole my voice so that I couldn’t talk. Another time it was about a werewolf who ate me. There’s no need to be ashamed about it.” Atla shrugs. “I mean it’s normal, isn’t it? I’m sure you have _loads_ of dreams like mine.”

Modi turns to look at the fire, unable to hold Atla’s earnest gaze.

“Well…I have nightmares like you but…they don’t have monsters in them.”

Atla looks at him strangely. “Then what do they have?”

Modi digs his foot into the dirt. “People,” he mutters at the ground.

Atla goes quiet for a long time. He must hear something in Modi’s voice because the next question he asks is

“People like pa- I mean – King Thor?”

“You can call him papa, you know. I don’t really care anymore.”

Atla looks surprised. “Are you sure?”

And Modi finds that he is. He isn’t bothered by it anymore. He doesn’t hate Atla with the same relish he used to have. He used to hate him because he thought it was Atla’s fault that Thor didn’t love him. But then he realized nothing he could’ve ever done would have made Thor love him. Even if Atla hadn’t been a part of the picture, Thor wouldn’t have loved him, because he was forced to marry Sif. There was nothing in the _world_ that could’ve made Thor love him.

Modi shrugs. “I mean it’s true isn’t it? He’s your papa. Just like he’ll only ever be Thor to me.”

“Modi,” Atla starts, his voice fierce, “he’s _both_ our papa’s.”

Modi bites down on an ugly smile.

“You asked me if Thor was in my nightmares? He was. Tell me, Atla, are _papa’s _supposed to be in your nightmares?”

Atla has no response to that. They spend the rest of the night in a tense silence.


	14. Striga

The next day finds Modi in one of his moods.

Every morning, Modi will try to convince Atla that they should turn back, and every morning, Atla refuses.

“I hate it there.” He always spits out. “I’d rather die here than go back and see those people laughing at me every day.”

And every day, Modi has to make his peace with Atla’s decision, because if he goes back without Atla, he can basically go back without a head because Loki will kill him at first sight.

Usually, Modi is expecting Atla’s response, and is resigned to it. But today finds him in one of those rare times where he is angered by Atla’s usual response, and this can be blamed on a multitude of things, not the least of which is that

  1. Modi has feasted on squirrel for the past few weeks when he is used to banquets in his honor
  2. the fact that he has sleep on the hard ground when he is used to a goose feathered bed
  3. that he has to depend on Atla (who has not an inch of fat on him) for warmth when Modi is used to extravagant Vanir furs, and
  4. the fact that he’s had to bathe in freezing streams for the past few weeks when he is used to having steaming baths drawn for him

So, yes, maybe when Atla gives his typical response of _no_, Modi does not find himself to be in the best mood for the rest of the day.

Modi is setting up a trap with twine he pulled from some bark (it was the best he could do under the circumstances), and it is only after two failures to set it up that he snaps and throws the twine in some random direction in the woods.

“I’m sick!”

Atla turns to him with a worried face. “Do you have a fever? Is it the chills again?”

“No!” Modi bites out. “I’m sick of this.” He motions their little campground. “I’m sick of living like this! I’m sick of having to set up traps every morning and night and taking shifts when we sleep and sleeping on the hard ground and sleeping in the cold without any furs and taking baths in the stream which is as cold as NINE HELLS! I’m sick I’m sick I’m sick of IT! And I’m going back.”

Modi turns on his heel, angrily walking in the direction of Thrudheim. He doesn’t look to see if Atla is following him, but there is no need to, because he can hear his clumsy steps quite loud and clear behind him.

“Modi.” Atla calls, his feet stepping on every dry branch and leaf possible, stealth not one of his talents – at least, not in the woods.

Modi ignores him.

“Modi.” Atla calls again, this time more desperately. “Modi, please.” And there it is, a wetness to his voice that tells Modi he is about to cry.

_Why why **why**_ am I so weak to this boy?

Modi stops abruptly, turning once again on his heel, Atla knocking into his chest.

Modi grabs Atla by the wrist roughly.

“I take it you’re coming with me?”

Atla looks up at him with wet eyes. He looks down.

“I don’t want to.” He whispers.

Modi wants to shake him until he breaks.

“Why? Why in Hel do you want to stay here? Are you afraid of the children of the court? Are you afraid of them still bothering you? Because I will put a stop to it. I _swear_ on all nine realms I will put a stop to it, Atla.”

Atla looks up at him, uncertain.

“You don’t hate me?”

Modi stares at him, incredulous, and then laughs.

“Atla, I am far past hating you. I have stopped hating you a long time ago. You saved my life.”

Still, this is not enough for Atla.

“I’m scared,” he says, and Modi finds he has lost his patience.

He turns towards Thrudheim once again.

-

It is close to dusk when Modi realizes he can no longer hear Atla’s footsteps trailing behind him.

He stops.

When he turns around, he finds Atla is no longer following him.

A sense of dread crawls up his spine.

“Atla!” He calls, but there is no response. “Atla!” He calls again, this time more upset. “Atla, if this is your idea of a game it’s not very funny!”

Still, there is no response. Modi curses.

_What could have happened?_ He thinks. _Atla was right behind me. He couldn’t have been snatched by bandits. Nor wolves. I would have heard it. Did I walk to fast? I do have a longer stride than him. Was it my mistake? Did I lose him_?

Every second that passes and Modi cannot find Atla the closer Modi feels to having a heart attack.

_I cannot believe, I CANNOT believe I lost him! He is louder and more clumsy than anything in this entire forest!_

And then Modi hears the scream, and he knows exactly where Atla is.

-

Modi runs towards the sound, his heart in his throat, desperately hoping to find Atla alive.

What he finds is something straight out of a storybook.

“Striga,” Modi whispers in a mix of fear and amazement, at the creature Atla is trying to fend off.

Striga are told in stories to warn children away from the woods, but Modi never thought they were real. They’re troubled spirits said to be risen from the grave, identifiable by their double hearts and double set of teeth. They are pale, look nothing like a person except for their shape, and have fearsome red eyes.

The striga swings it’s clawed hand towards Atla’s delicate face, and Modi throws a rock at it, clipping it in the face.

“Hey! Over here!” He calls loudly, waving his hands like a maniac.

The striga growls and launches itself towards him, and Modi runs.

He is quicker than Atla, he knows. Modi knows the woods, has hunted in them many times before, has a stealth like a wolf in these parts.

Still, Modi is just a boy. And the striga is a monster. It catches up to him eventually, but, just as Modi planned, it’s foot gets stuck in one of Modi’s traps.

The scream that comes out of it is unholy.

Modi is panting when Atla catches up to them.

“Magick me a sword, witch, and I will kill this beast.”

Atla blinks at him, speechless, face turning red.

“I cannot just conjure a sword from anywhere, Modi!”

Modi stares at him, incredulous. “You saved my life! And yet you can’t magick me a simple sword? The trap will not hold for long, Atla! Please. You must know of something.”

Modi can see, in Atla’s strange aquamarine eyes, that he is thinking hard. When he picks up a fallen branch, however, Modi can understand nothing of what he’s thinking.

“What are you doing?” Modi asks, confused, as Atla closes his eyes in concentration.

Atla scowls, eyes still closed. “I cannot conjure a sword, Modi, but I can make one.”

The striga lets out another blood curdling scream. Bit by bit, it is forcing it’s foot out of the trap, bones breaking.

Atla, on the other hand, is still holding a branch.

“Hurry up, will you?” Modi grits out impatiently. “The striga is almost out.”

“I am trying-“ Atla sneers back “-but you are aware I’m still a child, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Modi spits back, “I am aware. And soon you will be a _dead_ child-“

_CRACK_. Out comes the striga’s mangled foot from the trap, and it roars, and it throws one ugly fist at Modi’s head, sending Modi flying.

“Modi!” Atla screams, and Modi thinks, _finally, he’s taking this serious._

The striga advances towards him, still angry about its mangled foot.

“A little help here, Atla.” Modi coughs out, blood coming out of his mouth.

And no sooner has he said the words when a sword is thrown at him, Modi catching it at the perfect moment.

Modi tests the sword in his hand and thinks

_Incredible. It’s as light as a feather._

And then the striga is upon him, and Modi knows exactly what to do.

-

Modi ducks at the arm that reaches for him, and slices at its Achilles tendon.

The striga screams and falls to one knee, reaches for Modi again, and this time Modi cuts its hand off.

_Like something dying. Like something desperate. The scream is terrible._

And then, right when Modi is set to cut off its head, the striga surprises him and grabs him around the neck.

_Uh-oh._

Modi feels it’s nails break the skin on his neck, feels something wet crawl down his shirt.

_(blood, modi knows)_

Even worse, Modi feels the force of the striga’s hand on his trachea, cutting off his air.

Modi’s sword drops like a dead thing from his hand, as he struggles to pull the striga’s hands from its throat.

But the striga has the strength of ten men, and ignores Modi’s hands like they’re nothing, raising Modi above his head, Modi’s legs kicking uselessly at the air, the striga only squeezing his throat tighter.

The striga smiles at him, two sets of teeth glinting menacingly, and Modi knows

_I’m dead. I’m dead dead dead_ DEAD

_And all because I went back for that stupid boy-_

No sooner has Modi thought the words when Atla screams.

If he could, Modi would tell him it’s useless to scream. But-

But.

There is something awful about Atla’s scream. A shiver wracks itself down Modi’s body at the sound, like nails on a chalkboard.

But it seems to do something worse to the striga.

The striga, at first smiling at him, closes its mouth, a shiver wracking through it as well. And then a violent tremor. And then it’s shaking so hard it lets go of Modi, keening, bending itself to the ground, wailing like it’s in pain.

Modi gasps for breath when he hits the ground. He can barely think.

Atla is still screaming, screaming like he wants his vocal cords to be torn out. But now even the ground seems to be shaking, and the striga is plastered to the ground as if something’s keeping it there, it’s wails matching Atla’s screams.

The sword, Modi thinks stupidly. _The sword._

He crawls towards the sword, only a little ways away, his throat still throbbing from the striga’s grip.

The striga hasn’t moved an inch when Modi comes for it. It seems to be – impossible as it sounds – _crying_. Modi hears cracking sounds and realizes, terrifyingly, that it’s the striga’s bones _breaking_, as if the world itself was plastered to the striga’s back. As if gravity itself was forcing it into submission.

But Modi doesn’t have time to think why or who or how.

He raises the sword above his head, then brings it down on the striga.

-

Modi falls to the ground after he does it, wheezing for breath, blood splattered all over him.

He hasn’t even had his eyes closed for one second when he hears Atla crawling towards him, crying like a baby.

_Just one second_, Modi thinks. _One second of silence. One moment of rest. Please._

Modi has no such luck.

“M-m-modi!” Atla wails as he gets closer, hiccupping something savage. “Oh, no, _Modi_. No, please don’t be dead. Did I kill you? Are you dead? _Modi?”_

There’s a pause, blessed silence, and then – a great wail.

“No, Modi, oh no no NO!” Atla falls upon him, wrapping his arms around Modi, head on his chest, his body shaking with sobs. “There’s so much blood – too much! I can’t fix this…Oh nine hells…what have I done?” More crying, and then Atla again – “I’m sorry Modi, I’m so sorry-!”

Tired of the opera, Modi wheezes out

“Can you shut up, please?”

Quiet. And then Atla, all in his face, eyes brighter than any star Modi has ever seen.

“You’re alive?” He asks, tentatively. “You’re alive!” He yelps, and then, if even possible, holds Modi tighter.

Atla’s face is a mess of tears and snot. “I was so- so scared, Modi! I wasn’t going to be able to save you this time. I’m so happy, _so happy_, you’re alive.”

_Such an ugly face_, Modi thinks_. And you made it just for me_.

It’s strange how touching it is to Modi. How it’s really not even that ugly at all.

Atla moves to hug him again, and Modi pushes his face away.

“That’s enough,” he says imperiously.

Atla pouts. “But Modi,” he whines.

“What?” Modi snaps.

“I’m scared.” He mutters, and isn’t that Atla’s favorite phrase? “I want to hear your heartbeat, just to make sure it’s okay.”

Modi sighs like it’s a big deal, but secretly, he finds it somewhat endearing. “Fine.”

And Atla scrambles to hold him again, ear pressed against his chest. He makes a pleased little sound.

“It’s there. Knocking.”

“Of course it’s there.” Modi snaps, annoyed. “Did you think I didn’t have a heart?”

“No,” Atla murmurs, not even fazed at Modi’s attitude. “I knew it was there. I just nice to have a reminder.”

They lay like that for a while, no sounds save for the birds, and the sound of them breathing. Eventually, Modi runs his hand through Atla’s hair gently, and says

“It’s time, don’t you think? To go home?”

And Atla sighs, as if waking from a dream.

“Yeah. It’s time.”


	15. Return

_“You.”_

They’re not even out of the Blackwood when Loki finds them, appearing out of nowhere.

All at once a hand is being wrapped around his throat, and Modi is being dragged up into the air once again, unable to breathe.

Loki is in his male form, hair curled around his ears. His eyes are a vicious green.

“You cretin prince-“ he snarls, and Atla cries out.

“Mama, no!”

Loki’s shirt goes up into flames. Loki drops Modi in surprise.

Atla runs to where Modi is on the ground, coughing. Atla squeezes his hand, eyes wrinkled in concern.

“Are you okay?”

_No,_ Modi thinks acidly. _Your mother is a psycho_.

But he can’t say that, can he? At least, not in front of the witch himself, so Modi just nods his head in acquiescence.

“Atla,” Loki says, eyes big and incredulous. “What in the nine hells are you doing?”

Atla stands up, covering Modi with his body.

“Modi saved me, mama! He tried to stop me from running away but I wouldn’t listen. And then he came with me to protect me. If he hadn’t come with me I would have starved to death, or even worse, lost myself in the woods. In the end, he convinced me to come back. And then, when a striga tried to kill me-“

Loki’s eyes flare. “Striga? Where is it, Atla? What striga _dare_ lay a hand on my son?”

“Modi killed it. He killed it for me.”

Loki’s eyes wander to look at Modi, finally.

Male or female, Loki’s gaze is a scary thing to look at head on. As a man, though, Loki is taller than most Asgardians, and towers over Modi menacingly.

“I see…” Loki murmurs, eyes roving over the marks on Modi’s throat where the striga’s nails cut into. Loki bows his head respectively, if not suspiciously. “I’ve committed a grave error, your highness. I thought when Atla disappeared you had something to do with it. I thought you were the reason for his…departure. I’m glad to find out that you were the reason, instead, for his well-being.”

And then, so lightning quick Modi barely sees it, Loki sweeps Atla into his arms.

“I thought I had lost you.” Loki says quietly. “I’m glad to see that’s not the case. I called my blood to you but there was no answer. I thought you were dead.”

Modi sees it before he hears it. Atla’s sniffling sobs. His tiny back shakes with them.

“Oh, mama!” Atla wails. “How I missed you! It was so scary all the time! And we had to eat squirrel all the time!”

There is slight smile on the corner of Loki’s face.

“How spoiled you are, my child. I grew up in the Blackwood, you know. Worse, I had to settle for rats instead of squirrels.”

“I don’t care! No one should _ever_ have to grow up in there!”

Atla is still crying when Modi tries to take his leave. He feels awkward at the sudden display of emotion, and severely out of place. He’s about to walk away when Atla calls for him.

“Modi?” He says, voice all trembly. “Where are you going?”

Atla stares at him with expectant eyes. Loki, on the other hand, is expressionless.

_Ah_, he thinks. _I know when I’m not wanted._

Modi clears his throat and takes a bow. “I must take my leave now.”

Atla stares at him like he’s been kicked. “But why?”

Loki still looks at him with empty eyes, revealing nothing.

“Well, I must go the infirmary, for one-“

Atla yanks him towards them, wrapping Modi in a hug.

“If it’s the infirmary, then we can go together. Either way, we have to let papa know we’re home, too!”

Modi has never been this close to his father’s whore before. He thinks of Loki’s dagger gaze. He feels sweat pooling at the back of his neck.

He stutters, “U-hh, w-well-“

Surprisingly, Loki embraces him as well, although Modi flinches, thinking he’s going to choke him again.

“Oh, settle down, boy. I won’t bite. It’s just a hug.”

Still, Modi isn’t used to this kind of contact, and feels himself stiffen up. But then Atla squeezes his hand, one arm around him as well, and Modi feels himself loosen up.

Loki puts a hand on Modi’s cheek.

“Such a brave boy you are, following my son like that. Surely, you must be praised as well.”

Loki smiles at him, open, and Modi has never seen such a gentle expression from his father’s whore directed at him, so he blanks for a second before blushing.

_(loki, even in his male form, is quite pretty)_

“Oh, w-well, it was nothing much,” he stutters out, trying to be modest, but Atla won’t let him.

“Oh, no! Modi really is amazing. Once, he even caught a fox in his trap. A fox, mama! And didn’t you tell me that a fox is the most clever of animals?”

“That’s right, dear. My, my, what an ingenious brother you have.”

And there is a pause at that word, brother, where Modi feels as if he’s gone cold, and Atla goes quiet, but then Atla turns to him with a smile so bright Modi’s heart can’t help but skip a beat.

“Yes,” he says, still grinning. “I have the best brother in the whole world.”

* * *

“…And that’s everything that happened, sir.” Modi says, one knee on the ground in the throne room, his head bowed respectfully.

Thor doesn’t say anything for a bit, and then

“Atla.”

_ (only one word, but so much emotion in it)_

Thor opens his arms and Atla races up the steps, jumping into them.

Modi doesn’t even flinch as Atla passes him. He keeps his head bowed deferentially until his mother comes down from her throne and towers over him.

“You may stand.” She says.

Modi does so. When he looks up, his mother is in full body armor, her face cold. Thrud is beside her, dressed in extravagant furs, her lip curled.

“How unfortunate. You should’ve just died in the Blackwood.”

Modi ignores the urge to roll his eyes. His mother, on the other hand, has no problem voicing her displeasure at Thrud’s words.

_“Thrud Byggjya!”_ Mother says sharply. Thrud flinches.

_(when middle names are used, you know mother is truly upset)_

“Do you know what would have happened if your brother perished in those woods? The _entire kingdom_ would have been thrown into chaos. And you _know_,” Sif grits out, under her breath, “without Modi, we would have no place here.”

Modi lowers his eyes, his shoulders tight with some ugly emotion.

Thrud colors.

“No need to remind me, mother, just how disposable we are to Thor.” Thrud angrily gestures towards the throne. “I can see quite clearly our place here.”

And certainly, looking up to where the throne is, Loki and Atla crowded around Thor, everyone smiling – you can see just how worthless they are in comparison.

Thrud storms out, her eyes wet, but Sif only turns her anger on Modi.

“I expect immaturity from your sister. She is spoiled and has no great duties to mold her.” Sif’s golden eyes narrow dangerously. “You, on the other hand, have the greatest duty of all. To rule this kingdom. And yet you go on a camping trip with your father’s bas-“ Sif bites her tongue and curses. “-_Atla_. You go on a camping trip with Atla, and even worse, you risk your _life_ for him?”

“He’s only eight summers old.” Modi mutters under his breath.

Sif’s eyes flash brighter than any sun. “He is a _witch_.” She snarls.

‘_It’s what they deserve’_

Sif blinks, and then composes herself. When she speaks again, she is back to her cold, military-self.

“I hope you know you’ve disappointed me greatly.” Is the last thing she says to him before leaving the throne room.

_Maybe we should’ve stayed in the Blackwood after all_, Modi thinks bitterly. But then he thinks – _not worth losing my goose feathered bed. Or my hot water baths. Or my three course meals._

“Modi.”

Father calls him, eyes revealing nothing, and Modi rises not expecting much.

Still, a slap is too much.

The sound reverberates across the stone columns of the throne room and it is achingly loud. Even father’s whore stares in shock.

Atla cries out. “But papa, why-?”

Modi reaches for Atla’s hand discreetly and squeezes. He shakes his head as subtly as he can.

“Atla almost died because of you.” His father says, gaze impenetrable.

Atla opens his mouth, anger plain on his face to see, but Modi squeezes his hand again.

Modi feels strangely calm in front of his father’s coldness. Usually, it upsets him, makes his arguments desperate and childish. It is strange to see your father look upon you not as a son but a stranger. Obviously, it’s distressing as well.

But today, Modi is not bothered by it at all.

_(is it because atla is here? is it because modi’s finally accepted that his father will never love him?)_

Modi bows his head in deference.

“That was not my intention.” He responds coolly.

“Intention or not, you knew Atla was getting bullied and you did nothing to stop it. Rather, you let the bullying continue to a point where Atla felt the need to escape to find peace. What kind of brother are you?”

Modi resists the maniac urge to laugh.

_What a funny question, coming from you._

Instead, his throat aching, Modi takes the route that is quickest in finishing up this conversation. He lets go of Atla’s hand, and prostrates himself on the floor below his father.

“King Thor, brother Atla, mistress-_er_-Sir Loki, forgive-“

“Are you _crazy?_!” Loki is suddenly besides him, pulling him up from the floor. His gaze is incredulous. “You need not beg for forgiveness in such a disgraceful manner! You were already forgiven when you saved my son.”

“Such is the way of forgiveness in the court,” Thor says, voice hard. “He is a prince. He knows this well.”

Loki turns his wrath on Thor, emerald gaze burning.

“I don’t give a rat’s ass if he’s a prince! He is ten years old! He will not _beg_ before you like some kind of dog! He is your _son_.”

Modi stares, speechless, at Loki. No one has ever talked to Thor in such a manner and walked out alive. But Loki is still breathing.

Thor makes to say something else, fury painting his features, but Loki speaks before he can say anything.

“Atla, be useful and take your brother to the infirmary!” Loki barks. “I swear you’re just standing around here like some stupid headless chicken.”

Atla scrambles towards Modi. “Yes mama!” He says quickly, looping an arm through Modi’s and steering them towards the exit.

Modi tries to hold his ground. He looks at Atla nervously.

“Thor hasn’t excused me yet.”

But Atla only stares at him with bulging eyes. “You’re scared of _papa?_ You should be scared of mama. When she works herself into a temper like this, no one’s safe. Papa’s about to be eaten alive.”

-

“I’m sorry.” Atla says, eyes down, as Modi’s neck is bandaged.

Modi only blinks. “What are you sorry for?”

“For being stupid.” He sniffs. “I only wanted to scare you. You were going too fast so I stopped and well…I didn’t expect a striga to find me. I didn’t want you to get hurt.”

Modi sighs and closes his eyes. “There’s nothing to be sorry for. You only went into the forest in the first place because I didn’t stop Iver and them from bullying you.” Modi’s eyes open again. “Speaking of. Did you tell them who was bullying you?”

Atla’s fingers twitch nervously. Modi lets out a groan.

“Why didn’t you tell them?”

“You don’t understand, Modi,” Atla says desperately, “the things my mother can do. If she learned their names, she wouldn’t be appeased with simply punishing them. She’d kill them.”

Modi sighs again. “Whatever. It’s fine.” He stares hard into Atla’s sea glass eyes. “This time I’ll put a stop to it. I promise you, I’ll put a stop to it. My father was right when he said it was my fault.”

Atla opens his mouth as if to protest but Modi stops him.

“If I had only said one word, they would’ve stopped. I’m the prince. What else could they do but listen? Instead, however, I was petty, and jealous, and I did nothing. And I’m sorry, Atla. Truly, I’m sorry. I’m the one who owes you a million apologies.”

Atla looks down, his ears red. “It’s okay.” He mumbles. “I forgive you.”

And Modi closes his eyes, thinking that’s the end of it, when Atla speaks up again.

“Still, I’m sorry.” He mutters.

Modi fights the urge to groan. Instead, he reaches for Atla’s hand and squeezes gently.

“What about this time?”

“About pa-_Thor_. About Thor.” Atla won’t look at him. “It’s just not fair.” He whispers. “The way he treated you.”

Modi doesn’t know what to say to this. He doesn’t know how to feel. After an awkward moment of silence –

“Well,” Modi says dramatically, gently pulling his hand out of Atla’s grip, “life’s not fair, so –“

“But it isn’t right!” Atla explodes, eyes wet, reaching for Atla’s hand again and not letting go. “A father should never hit their child, no matter what! Even papa told me that and yet –“ Atla cuts himself off, lip trembling. He looks at Modi with a face full of heartbreak. “Oh, Modi, I’m sorry. You must be so sad, and here I am making it worse. You’re sad, aren’t you?”

And the funny thing is, Modi isn’t sad at all. Isn’t hurt by how his father treated him, or greeted him, or even by the obvious difference in treatment between himself and Atla. And yet Modi says, mesmerized by Atla’s shimmering eyes-

“Yes.” As if speaking from a distance. As if it really wasn’t even him speaking at all. “I’m sad. I’m so so _so_ sad.”

Atla’s eyes water again. “Oh, I knew it! I could tell, straight way, as soon as we left the throne room. I bet you wanted to cry, didn’t you?”

_No._

“Yes.” Modi says instead, still possessed.

Atla is crying again. “Oh, Modi! I’m sorry! Is there anything I can do to help, anything at all-?”

“Uh, well, maybe if you gave me a hug.” Modi twitches at the lie. “Maybe then I would feel better.”

_(stupid, stupid, STUPID! How obvious, how see-through, how **desperate**-)_

But Atla doesn’t even blink, crawling into Modi’s infirmary bed and pressing close to him, arms wrapped around him like an octopus.

There really isn’t enough space for the two of them. There really isn’t.

_(but modi likes it better that way)_

Atla holds him tightly, still sniffling. “Do you feel less like crying? Does your heart still hurt?” He asks worriedly.

Modi buries his head in the crook of Atla’s neck, arms wrapped around Atla’s tiny waist.

_Atla is smaller than Modi. Atla is younger than Modi. Atla has bones as delicate as a bird’s and yet somehow, Atla’s embrace is strong. There is something soothing about being held by him, a sweetness to his skin that makes Modi never want to let go._

“Maybe if you told me about the striga again. How I saved you? Or how my traps were so clever? I think I’d feel better then.”

Atla doesn’t even miss a beat. “Oh, Modi, it was so amazing! Everything! I could never wield a sword in such a way! And you didn’t even seem scared! You didn’t even cry! And then when the striga…”

Modi has to bite down a smile as Atla gushes on and on about an encounter that only lasted a maximum of ten minutes.

“What was that?” Modi interrupts later.

“Huh? Oh! Well, I just said how striga trembled in _fear_ of you when you picked up the sword and how _strong_ and _cool_ you looked when you thrust the sword through it’s head and –“

Modi’s body shakes in silent laughter. Atla mistakes it for sobbing.

“Oh, Modi! Are you crying? Don’t cry, you were amazing!”

_No,_ Modi thinks, still holding Atla tightly, _you are amazing._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHY IS THE FORMATTING LIKE THAT AGGHHH PISSES ME OFF !!!  
im just tryna finish this fic for fcks sake. but there is a lot to go LMAO


	16. Jotunheim Hunting Hound

“You treat him horribly,” is the first thing Loki says to Thor once the children have left the throne room.

“I treat him how he ought to be treated.”

“I would not treat a dog that way, let alone my own son.”

“It is good then, that Modi is not your son.”

Loki takes a deep breath to calm himself.

“If you do not wish to coddle him, that is your right. If you do not wish to lay upon him not even a inch of love or caring, that is your right. But to lay a _hand_ upon him, to treat him in such a manner as if he were a criminal – that is not right at all. That is reprehensible. You are not Tyr, Thor.”

Thor’s eyes glint dangerously. “Do not speak of my brother.”

“Then do not lay hands upon your son.”

-

The first time Loki meets Prince Modi is in Reinheimen forest.

Modi might not remember, but Loki does. Loki likes to go into Reinheimen to collect belladonna and yaupon. Poison can sell for a hefty price in the Upsala markets, especially if it’s hidden in clever and curious ways. Hiding things is a specialty of Loki’s, so he always profits nicely.

Atla is only five at the time, safe at their house in the Deadwood and guarded by multiple charms. Atla is also fussy and difficult and spoilt in every type of way.

Modi, at seven, is not so.

It is a surprise to see him there, eyes closed, his back against a giant jack pine. Besides him lays twine and gears and sharp looking tools Loki assumes are all for trapping.

Thor does not talk about his other children often. When Atla is first born their relationship is rocky. Thor wants Loki to move into the palace.

“The Deadwood is no place to raise a child,” he says, using his most authoritative tone. “Stay with me. You could a have a whole wing to yourselves. No one would bother you. Sif wouldn’t bother you. I would make sure of it.”

Loki only sees it as another cage.

_He wants me there so I’m never out of his sight_, he thinks. _What I give is never enough. Always, still, he wants me closer._

Loki knows Thor’s tricks well. He refuses. They argue about it whenever Thor comes to visit and after they’ve lain together and when they’re eating dinner. But Loki refuses to budge.

“You are not thinking,” he tells Thor. “What would the people say? How would your wife and children feel?”

“What does it matter what the people say? What does it matter how my wife and her children feel? I am the king. I have done my best to see to it they are comfortable. I have protected them. I owe them nothing else.”

Loki looks at Thor oddly. “Your wife’s children? They’re your children too, Thor.”

“Only by blood,” he replies simply, and the words leave a bad taste in Loki’s mouth.

When Loki comes upon Modi in the forest, he knows exactly who he is. Modi is an exact replica of his father with the same strong jaw, and straight nose, sun kissed skin and hair a crown of gold.

Loki cannot help but stare. His heart squeezes.

_Is this what Thor looked like when he was a child? _Loki wonders. It’s hard to imagine Thor ever looking so innocent.

Loki is about to reach out to touch the boy when Modi suddenly wakes.

His eyes are oil spill black.

Loki falters, his hand falling limply to his side.

“What are you doing?” Modi asks, eyes an endless void. He watches Loki carefully. He holds his body in an almost languid position, but something tells Loki this is a trick. That the boy is in fact ready to spring at any moment.

_Not like my boy_, Loki thinks. Not like Atla, who wears his heart on his sleeve, and whose eyes are a million things all at once. Who smiles easily, and cries easily as well. Who would be a rabbit to a wolf cub like Modi.

Still, Loki is quick with a smile. Sure the boy is a wolf cub, but Loki has been a wolf for far longer. His lies come easily.

“I was just about to ask you the same thing, Prince Modi. Why have you wandered so far out, and alone at that? You are quite far from Thrudheim.”

Modi relaxes almost imperceptibly. “Oh. So you are from the palace. Surely you must know then that it’s my birthday.”

Loki blinks back his surprise. “Of course,” he replies effortlessly. “But why celebrate your birthday here?”

Modi rolls a piece of twine between his fingers. “I was waiting for my father. He promised to take me out hunting today. I suppose he forgot.”

Loki laughs. When Modi looks at him oddly, Loki’s laugh dies quickly.

“That was not a jest? But…how do you forget a birthday?”

Thor never forgets Atla’s. Always makes a big deal of it, no matter how much Loki complains that it’s spoiling him.

“Oh, my father forgets all the time.” Modi says, shrugging. “It’s very easy to forget a birthday, you know. Father has forgotten the last six. I think it’s more of a feat remembering a birthday, really.”

Loki stares at this boy, with hair the color of the sun, in complete and utter disbelief. So dispassionately does he say this as well, as if it were a law of the world. As if the word father and son mean nothing at all.

When sometimes, Loki would picture Modi, it was not like this.

_What does it mean, Loki had asked once. His name?_

_Wrath, Thor had said. Wrath._

_(who names their own child wrath?)_

Loki pictured a boy like Thor, but at the same time, nothing like Thor. A boy with his appearance, but nothing of his personality. A boy who smiled easily, and had everything easily in his grasp, and smirked and made sly jokes and was arrogant to the point you wanted to kill him.

A boy deserving of the name _wrath._

The boy in front of Loki is nothing like that. This boy is quicker to frown than to smile. This boy is lonely.

Loki swallows down the things he wants to say. Instead, he tells Modi

“It will be getting dark soon, your highness. You should be on your way back to Thrudheim.”

“I don’t know the way back.” Modi says casually. “I’m lost.”

“Lost-?” Loki cannot help but gape at the boy. “Then why didn’t you call for help?”

Modi shrugs. “I was going to, but I got tired, and I took a nap.”

“You took a nap?” Loki says incredulously. “Whilst lost? Not caring that the sun would eventually set and light would not be in your favor?”

Modi blinks up at Loki. “You ask many questions that aren’t really questions, Sir…?”

“Faustian.” Loki lies easily.

If it were Atla alone here, he would be screaming his vocal cords raw. He would never cease calling for his mama or papa. And he would be crying the whole time.

Does fear not exist for this boy?

“You’re not scared of the woods, your highness?”

Modi looks at Loki as if he’s stupid. “I’m scared of bigger, more important and real things, Sir Faustian. Like my ascension to the throne. Like serving my people well.”

Has he never been taught how to be just a boy?

Loki feels an anger then, settle tight and dark in the pit of his stomach. Loki has known Thor a long time, has known his depths of cruelty and thoughtlessness, but to treat his own son in such a way is too much.

Loki reaches out a hand. “Come. I know the way. We will go back together.”

Modi reaches out his hand, a thoughtful look on his face.

“My sister Thrud says I have a way of getting what I want before I want it. I suppose she’s right. I didn’t have to do much, and here you are, saving my life.”

“Is that why you didn’t call for help?”

Modi looks down all of a sudden. “No. I just thought...maybe some people didn't want to see my face for a while. Maybe they needed a bit of a break from me, you know?”

Loki stops in his tracks. He looks at the boy in utter shock.

“Why would you say that?”

Modi runs his fingers against the rough bark. “Well, it’s my birthday, and I’m spending it alone.” Modi shrugs again. “I don’t think I have to say anything. I think just the fact is enough.”

Loki feels his heart squeeze painfully. He tries not to let it bother him too much. Modi is not his child. Modi is a prince. But still…

“You are not alone, your highness. I am here.”

Modi looks up at him, a thoughtful expression on his face. “I suppose you’re right, sir Faustian.” He looks up even farther, to stare at Loki’s hair. “I’ve never seen hair that color.”

“Black?”

“Like the night sky devoid of stars.”

Loki looks down at Modi, flattered and slightly impressed. “What a word smith you are, Prince Modi.”

Atla would’ve described it as the same color as deer droppings.

They walk through the forest together, hand in hand, talking mostly about Modi’s interest in trapping.

“I only started hunting because I knew father liked it. I thought if I liked it as well we would have more to talk about. Maybe even more time to be together. I don’t like killing animals. That’s why when father told me I could choose between the bow and arrow and making my own traps, I chose the traps. So most of them I can just release.” When Modi looks at Loki, there is something like pride in his eyes. The most emotion Loki has seen all day. “I’m very good at it too.”

Loki can’t help but smile at his enthusiasm. He brushes a lock of Modi’s hair behind his ear.

“Oh, I’m sure you are.”

Modi blinks, an unknown emotion lingering in his eyes. “You touch me a lot, you know. It’s strange.”

Loki frowns. “Doesn’t your mama ever brush your hair back like this?”

Modi looks at Loki strangely. “Why would she? I’m a boy. She doesn’t need to brush my hair.”

“It’s not –“ Loki starts, but then bites his tongue. _That’s not the point_, he wants to say. _That’s not the point at all._ “Never mind,” he says instead.

They continue walking and Modi keeps talking, mostly about sensible things, like his assignments for that week, or how he wishes the maids would fix the creak in his door, and then, more bashfully, he talks about what he wanted for his birthday.

“I was hoping for a Jotunheim hound, to be honest.”

Loki looks at Modi curiously. “Really? But it’s a hunting hound.”

“I know.” Modi sighs. “But it’s pretty. Wild, dangerous, scary even, but also very beautiful.”

-

When they reach the edge Thrudheim’s property Loki lets go of Modi’s hand.

He looks at this small boy, with large dark eyes, and hands endlessly blistered from sword practice, who talks about hunting to impress his father but does not like to kill, and he cannot help but hug him.

Loki holds Modi as tight to him as he can, his fingers digging into his bones, Modi’s pulse a butterfly against his.

“Happy birthday, Modi.” He says. “I hope you know there are people who care.”

When he finally lets go, Modi is looking at him strange.

“You must care about me very much, sir Faustian.”

“Of course.” Loki says, pretending to be serious. “You are the prince. You are a very important existence to many.”

Loki cups Modi’s face in his hands, and again, his heart cannot help but ache. Both for the boy, and the Thor Loki sees in him.

_How I wish I could’ve met him when I was younger_, Loki thinks privately. _When he was this same age, before everything went wrong. Maybe then our lives would be different. Maybe then everything wouldn’t be the mess that it is._

“You look just like him.” Loki whispers.

“My father?”

“Yes.”

“You say that as if you know him personally.”

“No.” Loki finally says after a long stretch of silence. “Of course not.”

He stands to leave, but not before carding his hand through Modi’s hair one more time.

“I must go now, prince. The blacksmith is waiting for me.”

Loki turns on his heel, about to take a step towards the supposed blacksmith’s, when a hand around his wrist stops him.

“Wait.” Modi says. He bites his lip before speaking. “Since it’s still my birthday, can I have another hug?”

Loki smiles.

-

A year later, during a certain day in spring, Loki says to Thor

“Isn’t Modi’s birthday in a couple days?”

Thor, buckling his pants on the edge of Loki’s bed, pauses.

“It is, actually. How did you know that?”

“He’s your other son. Practically my step-son. Of course I would know.”

“Hm, well, yes.” Thor says distractedly. “You’re right.”

“You should get him a Jotunheim hound.”

Silence, and then

“Are you crazy? Why? They’re difficult to find, not to mention notoriously expensive to buy. And Modi doesn’t really like hunting anyway. The hound would go to waste with him.”

“So?”

Thor’s eyes bulge. “So?”

“You got Atla a ruby from Chethisdyd’s hoard because he claimed dragon gems had ‘special’ properties. Your telling me that wasn’t difficult and expensive to find?”

“That’s different, Loki. Atla is **_ours_**. Our child.”

“And Modi isn’t?” Loki snaps.

Thor sighs. “Look. You don’t understand, Loki. Besides being unrealistic, you don’t know how Modi’s sister is. She’s jealous of everything he has. She would kill the poor thing in under a week.”

“_You’re_ the one who doesn’t understand, Thor. Listen to me. I have a connection in Jotunheim. He has a mama who’s just had a litter. He’s already promised to save one for me.”

Thor looks at him. “Why are you going so far, Loki?”

Loki glares. “Why are you not going far enough, Thor?”

Thor only shakes his head. “They’re too expensive, Loki.”

_“Then I will pay half of it, you damn miser!”_ Loki explodes. “All you have to do is go pick it up and not be a horrible father for once.”

Thor’s face goes slack in hurt. “I am not a horrible father.”

Loki scowls. “Then go to Jotunheim and prove to me that you aren’t.”

-

On Modi’s eight birthday, he receives a Jotunheim hunting hound.

That day his smile is the brightest thing in the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know how this ends and i know every step leading there but is SOOOO MUCH  
i rlly thought i'd be done fast lmao


	17. The World

Life becomes a lot easier, Modi finds, when you give up an enemy for a friend.

Everything that made itself worse, just because Atla was there, is suddenly better. Modi starts to enjoy his shared classes with Atla. The way Atla will mercilessly pick apart their various smug and haughty professors. The clever way Atla will get them out of assignments.

Sword work is something Atla will never pick up on, that much is obvious. Even though he grows older every summer, his body does not grow with him. Certainly, he gains height, but not much else. And still, he is not taller than Modi.

At thirteen, Atla is decidedly colt like. He is all long limbs and a face he has not grown into yet, but is still plenty sweet. Big, turquoise eyes. Lashes longer than any girl Modi has ever seen.

It is safe to say Atla has no other friends apart from Modi, due to his strange otherness. Ever since their journey to the Blackwood Atla has been plastered to Modi’s side; follows him like a lost puppy. Modi would be lying if he said it wasn’t flattering.

Take now, for instance. Sword practice. Atla never misses a chance to watch Modi and cheer him on.

“Get him, Modi!” Atla screams, plastered to the small wall of the training area, along with the other trainees and knights.

Modi swings his sword toward Iver, missing by centimeters, sweat pooling at the back of his neck.

Iver grins. “Did your lover distract you?”

Modi grunts as Iver brings down his sword, pushing against it with his own.

Iver may be tall, and strong, and one year older than Modi, but Modi is stronger. And Iver has not been the same since his accident in the blacksmith’s forge, where his dominant hand was crushed by an anvil and came out mangled. Iver uses his left hand now.

With a sudden burst of adrenaline he pushes against Iver’s sword again, hard enough that Iver loses balance and falls backwards on his ass.

Modi brings his sword down swiftly on Iver’s neck.

“Do you yield?”

Iver smiles, but there is something ugly in his eyes.

“Of course, your highness.” He says, bowing his head. “Anything for the crown prince.”

Modi can hear Atla’s incensed mutterings from across the yard.

“Why you..! You act as if Modi hadn’t bested you fair and square!”

But it’s not like everyone isn’t thinking it. One look at the crowd and you can tell by their unimpressed gazes that they think Iver has let Modi win. Still, it matters little to Modi. He alone knows the truth, and that’s enough for him. Let the rest challenge them if they must, and Modi will show them how grievously wrong they are in their assumptions.

Modi knocks his head into Atla’s, grabbing him by the nape of the neck, laughing.

“Stop complaining Atla. You know Iver only likes it more when you do that. It makes him look better to the rest of the knights. More gracious and mature.”

Atla’s eyes, more green today than blue, burn like twin flames.

“I just can’t stand it, Modi! Look at his smug face, as if he has anything to be proud of! It’s so annoying!”

Modi turns to watch Iver and, sure enough, he has an ugly little smirk on his lips as he talks to the other knights.

Modi only rolls his eyes. “When is Iver not smug?”

When Modi returned from the Blackwood, he made it clear to the children of the court that any further bullying of any kind would not be tolerated. He also cut off ties with his old friends, including Iver, though to be honest his relationship with Iver had been strained even before all the things with Atla happened.

Iver did well enough on his own, as Modi predicted he would. He had his own little circle of sycophants now, and was the head of them all, as he most likely wished he could be when he was younger. It also helped that he never got punished for what he did, as Atla never snitched on anyone.

Either way, it’s not like anyone bothers Atla anymore anyway. Iver probably realized his mistake the day Atla went missing. And no one calls him bastard anymore, at least not to his face. Instead, Atla’s existence is one that is largely ignored, and though no one bothers him, no one is friends with him either.

Atla opens his mouth to say something else, no doubt still upset, but is interrupted by the appearance of his mother.

Loki is in his female form, Ase, and therefore appears as the mistress of Thor and not his advisor.

A hush falls over the training yards as she breezes past, her hair tangled and wild behind her, dressed in a modest green dress that brings out the emerald of her eyes. Doubtless, Loki is like no other mistress they have ever seen, as she cares little for her finery or the coif of her hair or the extravagance of her dress. Instead, she dresses more like a woman selling meat in the Upsala markets.

Still, one look upon her face and you know she is no Upsala market seller.

The crowd, all male, has a mixed reaction to seeing Loki. Most, largely loyal to Queen Sif, and admiring of her prowess in battle, look at Loki in disgust. Others, looking upon her form, are filled with lust. Others still, in awe of the commanding air surrounding her, look upon her in wonder.

Probably, the most interesting reaction has to be Iver’s.

In a blink of an eye the smirk falls from his lips and he bends the knee.

Modi stares in shock. So does the rest of the yard. No one else is bowing. And why would they? Loki is the King’s mistress. She is not the Queen.

“Lady Ase.” Iver murmurs. He raises his left hand, eyes fixed on her. “May I?”

Loki stares down at him. Her expression reveals nothing. Then she smiles, just a curl of her lip, really, but still sly. She puts her hand in his.

“You may.”

Iver kisses her hand. If he kisses her far longer than what is appropriate, whose to say? It’s not like it matters anyway. Loki is just the King’s mistress. Not the Queen.

It feels like the whole yard takes a sharp breath when Iver kisses her. Some look at him in disbelief. Other as if he has just done something sacrilegious. All of them, however, even the ones who support Queen Sif, look at him with just a tad of envy.

“Ugh.” Modi feels chills crawl up his spine. “What’s his deal?”

Atla looks at Modi curiously. “Who, Iver’s? He’s been like that for a while now. He used to pretend to run into my mother all the time, just to talk to her. As if mama didn’t know better.” Atla scoffs. “Now he wants to be part of her personal guard. He sends in an application every year.”

Modi looks at Atla, aghast. “Are you serious right now? That’s so…” _Obsessive_, Modi thinks, but quickly shakes the thought out. “Well,” he says cautiously, “it’s probably just to be promoted to a higher station.”

Atla _hmms._ “Maybe. Either way, it’s not like he’ll ever get the position. You know mama’s guard is fake.”

And it’s true. Tradition rules that, like the Queen and the King, even the King’s mistress must have a personal guard. But while the King and Queen’s guard can be made up of five, even fifteen people, the personal guard of a mistress only has to be one.

_(not trusting anyone to guard his secret, that he was both the King’s mistress and advisor, Loki made his own personal guard. from clay and leaves and twine. and a rooster’s heart. the guard doesn’t speak, but he has the brain of a crow, and can be exceptionally bright when the time calls for it)_

Iver moves to stand, bowing before Loki again, and Loki forgets him easily, walking up to Alta like originally planned.

_(modi, eyes still locked on iver, watches how iver’s gaze follows loki as he walks away)_

Loki is smiling wide, and it looks like he’s going to embrace Atla in a big hug when he suddenly grabs Atla by the ear.

_“Mama mama_ owWwwW!”

“Atla, what are you doing here?” Loki hisses under his breath, still smiling. “Did you not recall you had lessons with me today? _Special_ lessons?”

_Seidr lessons. _

Atla lowers his eyes guiltily. “But mama. We practiced just the other day.”

Loki looks murderous. “That is the point of learning a skill, Atla. You practice it every day.”

“But Thor was against Iver today I just _had_ to see it-!”

Loki gives one particularly brutal twist of Atla’s ear.

“Go to the practice room, Atla. Or I swear I won’t hold back on whipping your hide in front of all these people.”

Atla yelps and goes running out of the training yards, Loki and Modi watching him.

Modi bows awkwardly, still not sure of where he stands with his father’s whore, but Loki just watches him coolly.

Modi resists the urge to twitch. He’s not sure why Loki is still here.

“Is there something you need, Lady Ase?”

Emerald eyes pierce into him like diamond.

“My son is quite fond of you.”

Modi blinks. Of all the things Modi thought Loki would talk to him about, this was not on the list.

“Uh, yes. I suppose.”

Loki laughs. It sounds like bells. Heads turn in their direction, most noticeable of which is Iver’s, who does not try to hide his stare.

“You suppose? You have bewitched him, Modi.”

Modi feels waves of alarm go through him. His eyes widen.

“Lo- Lady Ase, I swear on my life I have not. You know as well as I do that I am no w-“ Modi stops abruptly, aware of his volume, and whispers, “-_witch_.”

Loki smiles, amused. “Oh, of course not. How could you be? But you don’t have to be a witch to bewitch someone.”

Modi could only stare at her, confused. “I’m sorry, I do not follow. How do you mean?”

There is something tight about Loki’s smile when she speaks.

“Atla follows at your heels like a puppy dog. He talks about you constantly. He skips class to see you spar or play in the gardens with you. He would even do your bidding if you asked it of him. One word from you seems to be worth it’s weight in gold to my poor boy. I wonder,” Loki says, eyes narrowing, “what kind of witchery this is, Prince Modi.”

-

Modi runs over Loki’s words carefully in his head while he takes off his armor, on his way to his quarters.

_Bewitched? But not in a witch sense? What other meaning could there possibly be?_

Modi is so lost in his thoughts he doesn’t notice Thrud until she’s right in front of him.

Thrud is twenty now, and has joined the ranks of the infamous Valkyries, an elite battalion of female soldiers. She appears to him now in full battle gear, no doubt having been called home by Thor, who is constantly trying to talk her into leaving the Valkyries and marrying some posh prince.

“Little Modi,” she croons, her hair still the deep red of spilled blood. How fitting. “How’s it been here in your little castle with your puppets, playing at prince?”

Modi is unperturbed. “About as well as it’s gone for you, I assume, playing at warrior princess.” Modi pauses, as if thinking carefully. “Though, it must grate at you – your own father declining your request to be a part of the war council. No matter what you’re still _just_ a girl, Thrud. How that must eat at you.”

Thrud laughs, but her golden eyes glint dangerously, and Modi knows he’s struck where the iron is hot.

“How I’ve missed your witty banter, brother.”

They are no longer at the age where they will throw tantrums at every hurtful thing each other says. They are older now, and even colder.

Modi’s eyes flicker up and down Thrud’s armor. “I still can’t get used to seeing you dressed in that. It seems like just the other day you would peruse in the most luxurious of furs and whale-bone corsets.”

Thrud’s smile turns downward. “Yes, well, that was all mother. I hated the clothing she would force on me. Doubtless, it was all so some posh prince would take notice of me and I could secure a great and powerful alliance. Do you remember all the portraits she commissioned of me?”

Modi can’t help a small smile at that one. “Yes. The artist wanted to paint you with as Aphrodite, goddess of love and beauty, born from the foam of the ocean.”

“Can you believe the ridiculousness? And I told that painter I had another goddess in mind. Artemis. Goddess of the hunt. That I even had my own –“

“-hunting hound that he could paint into the picture by your side. Yeah, I remember. You looked something fierce in it,” Modi says smiling. “Like something straight of hell.” And then Modi remembers, and his smile drops. “It was a Jotunheim hunting hound. Like my old one.”

_That you killed_ goes unsaid, but the atmosphere changes. Goes cold again.

Thrud watches him carefully. “Yeah. Like your old one.” She’s quiet for a moment, before continuing. “Anyway, no prince was going marry the princess in that portrait, that’s for sure. A hellion for a wife? No way. That’s why the painter wanted me as Aphrodite, to make me seem more lovely. Obedient. Mother went crazy when she saw the painting. Said it wasn’t what she paid for. Took her sword and ripped it right in half.”

Thrud laughs, remembering, but Modi is already growing tired of the conversation. Thrud probably senses this, because right as he’s about to walk away, her eyes flash something wicked and she says

“How’s the littlest brother?”

Modi looks at her suspiciously. “Fine.”

“What a nifty little trick that whore of father’s pulled,” she says, smirking.

“How do you mean?”

Thrud’s smirk wavers. She stares at him. “You don’t know?”

“No, I don’t.”

“You can’t call her little progeny the b-word. His _proper_ title. Most people won’t notice, but if you’ve been exposed to seidr before it’s really quite obvious. Try and call him that and your tongue feels like it’s about to be cut off. Most people will misinterpret it for fear of her wrath, or father’s, coming down on them. But it’s her seidr. It’s that powerful.” Thrud looks at him odd. “You really didn’t notice?”

Modi doesn’t know what to say. What can he say? That he hasn’t thought of Atla as a bastard for a long time? That he hasn’t even considered calling him it once in forever?

Thrud seems to take Modi’s lack of an answer as one. Something seems to click in her eyes. Her smirk comes back.

“I see,” she drawls. “It’s just as I thought.”

Modi frowns. “What’s just as you thought?”

“You are soft for this boy.”

Modi blinks. He shakes his head. He laughs. “What?”

Thrud smiles, malicious. “You heard me. _Soft._ Every time I come to visit I see you and him, thick as thieves, playing some game or another. Mother even complained to me that you two used to sleep together in the same bed as children.”

Modi colors. “That’s only because Atla begged me. Loki forced him out of her bedchamber and he wasn’t used to sleeping alone.”

“So if Iver said he had trouble sleeping alone, you would’ve slept with him?”

“No!”

Thrud gives him a _see? I told you so_ look.

“But that’s different!” Modi protests. “Iver wasn’t eight summers old at the time. And he’s not my brother.”

Thrud doesn’t seem impressed. “And since when did blood have anything to do with it? Our family’s blood related, but we all hate each other.”

Modi looks at her. “I don’t hate you.”

Thrud smiles bitterly. “I killed your hound, remember?”

Modi doesn’t know what to say to that. They’re silent for a moment before Thrud speaks up again, quietly.

“I thought it was so strange, when you came back. You were so strange. I thought you were a changeling. I thought someone else had climbed in to your skin and the real you was dead somewhere in the Blackwood. You threatened all those snobby little children of the court not to bother Atla again. And then you cut ties with that bootlicking little circle of yours. Even cut ties with Bjorn and Iver.”

Modi doesn’t know why, but he can’t make eye contact with Thrud. Instead he looks at his sword hanging limply by his side.

“I had to. Father was upset. You remember.”

Thrud looks at him, face absent of any emotion.

“Why are you lying?”

Modi stares at his sword.

“Breaking ties with Iver? Not a big deal. He’s the son of a baron. He’s nothing. But Bjorn? You know how costly that was. He’s the son of a duke. He’s someone you’re going to need to have on your side during council meetings in the future. And I know Bjorn. He’s a follower. He’s quiet and he doesn’t throw punches. No way he could’ve been the ringleader who was bullying Atla. At most, he probably laughed at him. So why? Why break that friendship?”

_You weren’t there_, Modi wants to say. _You didn’t see Atla’s face when he saw them. All of them._ It didn’t matter, at that moment, if all Bjorn had done was laugh. Bjorn was dead to him as soon as he saw the shame and fear and anger flood Atla’s face.

But Modi can’t say this. He says instead, shrugging-

“I got tired of him. I got tired of all them. I needed new friends.”

Thrud watches him carefully before saying-

“I would have never taken you to that house in the first place if I knew you’d get like this.”

“Like what?”

“Weak.”

The word sends alarms ringing through his head. Modi scoffs, incredulous.

“Me? _Weak?_” Modi thinks of Iver watching Loki. “You got to be kidding me!”

“You forget I know you best, brother. How could I not? We come from the same womb. We were raised in the same house. We were given everything in the world. People who are given everything in the world don’t have eyes like most people. They get sick of things easily. They break their toys and get new ones just as fast. They don’t know the word _value_. They don’t know how to be grateful. They don’t know how to care about things. How could we when we have infinity in our hands?”

Modi is silent. Thrud continues.

“When I was child, I was scared of you.”

Modi scoffs. _Of all the things –_

But Thrud seems serious. “You laugh, but it’s true. The eyes on you, Modi, I swear – by all the Gods, they were empty. And they were so black they seemed to absorb all the light in a room. I had never seen eyes like yours. Like oblivion. People could get lost in your eyes, I thought, but in a bad way. They could drown in the dark depths, asphyxiate like those Midgardian space travelers without their suits.”

“That’s very kind of you.” Modi says dryly.

“But it’s different with this boy, isn’t it?” Thrud cuts in, her tone curious. “How long have you had this toy with you? Five years already?” Thrud whistles. “And how you spoil him. How you coddle him. You do not even bother hiding your favor. And your eyes that I so feared – how there almost seem to be stars when you look at him.”

Modi bites down on his tongue so hard he tastes blood. He feels stupid with anger. He tries to open his mouth to say something, anything, but words fail him. Of all the things to be accused of, this is what Thrud accuses him of? It is so out of nowhere, nothing even near to his thoughts and feelings, that Modi cannot feel nothing but shocked. And the implications of it –

“You talk as if I’m some kind of puppy dog following at this boy’s heels!”

“Are you?”

Modi feels a tide of anger surge in him. “Me? A prince? What a tasteless joke, Thrud. If anything,” Modi says, thinking of Loki’s earlier words, “it is Atla who follows me around like some useless puppy.”

“I do not doubt what you say. I know you saved that ba-“ Thrud winces, “-boy from the Blackwood. It would not be surprising to me if he was now devoted to you, as you claim. But I also know you, Modi. And though you do not follow at this boys heels, and though you may show no sign otherwise, you are weak to this boy. Your eyes are like mine, Modi. And I would recognize if my eyes had changed in some way.”

Modi shakes his head in disgust. “You speak such utter nonsense, Thrud, it’s no wonder father never elected you to his war council.”

Thrud’s eyes spark fiery gold, and Modi is about to push past her when she grabs his arm, tight.

“How does it feel, then?” She sneers.

Modi tries to move his arm out of her grasp, but Thrud is not a Valkryie for nothing.

“How does what feel?” he grunts.

“You know how much I would’ve killed to be trained in seidr?” Thrud growls. “The most powerful witch in all nine realms turns out to be father’s whore, and she starts living in the West Wing, and mother won’t even let me see her. Won’t let me anywhere near her. The devil’s craft, she calls it.” Thrud scowls at the memory. “But that didn’t stop me. I knew where the witch practiced with our _dearest_ brother. I spied on them once. I spied on them and…” Thrud’s face crumples. “…I knew then it was useless. Seidr, magic, witchery, any aspirations in that area – useless. The things I could do, compared to the things they could do, compared to the things even that useless, weak, pathetic little son of hers could do – it was nothing. It was a drop in the ocean. Even if I practiced all my life – never, would I be even halfway close, to the things they could do.”

Flashes of memory light like sparks behind Modi’s eyes. _Atla bringing him back from the brink of death. Atla and the striga. And the way it screamed. And the way it cried. And the way the weight of all the world seemed to pushing it straight into the ground._

And Atla had only been eight summers old.

“I don’t understand.” Modi grits out. “What’s the question?”

Thrud’s eyes look wild. Feral. “The question, dearest Modi, is _how does it feel_. How does it feel to have one of the most dangerous things in all the realm trail behind you like a harmless puppy?”

When Modi has no answer for her, Thrud laughs. She lets go of his arm. She straightens her armor, and the emptiness bleeds back into her eyes.

“It seems it is not only father who cannot help it. It seems even the Gods cannot help but give you the world.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> why is the format fucked up?  
i guess the archive just likes fucking with me 🙃


	18. Atla Dearest

That night it thunders hard. It seems the sky is upset, and when the sky is upset, Modi is always sure to get a certain visitor.

When someone knocks on his bedchamber, he is already expecting Atla.

“Come in.” He says, eyes open and watching the lighting outside his window.

Atla comes in sheepishly, his head lowered.

“I didn’t mean to disturb, but-“

Always, always with the apologizing. Modi shakes his head.

“You’re afraid of thunderstorms. What else is there to be done?”

Modi throws back the Jotunheim furs and Atla is quick to skitter in at one especially loud lighting strike, squealing and practically throwing himself on top of Modi.

Atla is trembling hard like a scared little bird. Modi hushes him and runs a hand soothingly down his back, trying to distract him from the storm. Everything about him seems so fragile and yet –

_How does it feel to have one of the most dangerous things in all the realm trail behind you like a harmless puppy?_

Modi does his best to shake the thought out of his mind.

“Remember we used to do this all the time?” Modi asks. “When you were a baby?”

“I wasn’t a baby.” Atla snaps, his shivering subsiding a little. “I was eight. And don’t remind me of that.” Atla mutters.

“Why not?”

“Because it shows how I was weak. And here, again in your rooms, still weak.” Atla mutters bitterly.

Modi tangles his fingers in Atla’s hair, considering.

“I’ve never thought you weak.”

“Stop lying.”

Modi looks down at Atla’s head. “I’m not.”

Atla pushes away from Modi, angry, all shaking now purely rage.

“Everyone thinks it. I think it. I’m smaller than most boys my age. I can barely hold a sword, and even then, I can’t swing it. I would never beat anyone in a test of strength. Im afraid of the woods. Im afraid of the dark. Im afraid of striga and werewolves and all those make believe stories. Nobody likes me. They all laugh at me, or worse, ignore me. If im not weak then what am I? What’s the first thing you think of when you think of me?”

“Dangerous.”

It’s an automatic response. Atla’s eyes, which previously had been furious, now looked bemused.

“Dangerous?”

Nine hells. It’s not what he meant to say. It’s only Thrud’s words lingering in his mind. But at the same time…

“Sure I can swing a sword. Sure I can beat anyone in this court in a duel. And yeah, I’m not afraid of a lot of things. But Atla you…”

_The burn Modi felt when Atla grabbed his wrist. The striga crying. Atla saving his life. Atla, back straight against all of his bullies when he was eight summers old, laughing at all of them, laughing at him._

“…you could cut me down with a finger. A couple of words, or a blink of your eye, and I could be like that striga in the woods. It doesn’t matter how much training I’ve been through. It doesn’t matter if I’m the best swordfighter in this realm. It doesn’t matter if I’m not afraid of anything. Against you, Atla,” Modi says, slight wonder in his tone, “I would never win.”

Atla goes quiet. The storm rages outside Modi’s window but it is no longer a focus of Atla’s.

“It’s not the same.” He says finally.

“How do you mean?”

“It’s not the same because this is a gift I was born with and you earned your strength. I didn’t earn my seidr. It was already mine.”

Atla won’t look at him. Modi grabs him by the chin and Atla tries to move away and

“Atla? Are you crying?” Modi says disbelievingly. “Thirteen summers old and you’re still crying like you’re only eight!”

Atla scowls. There are no tears, but his eyes are strangely glossy, and his lashes are wet.

“I can’t help it.” He snaps. “I’m weak. Do you even know-“ Atla breaks off abruptly, then continues, in a more quiet tone-

“Do you even know how much I wanted to be like you? When I first came, I thought you were just gonna be snobby. Pathetic. Spoiled. People would call you the prince and then laugh behind your back. It was a title you were born with, not one you deserved. I thought you would be something funny to watch.

But then I realized it wasn’t just a title. Maybe you’d been born with it but certainly…you deserved it. All the children of the court looked up to you. They copied your mannerisms. They tried to copy your cold way of talking without looking stupid. In the training yards it was obvious…even at that age…that you were leagues ahead of them all. The other boys would joke around between breaks and pretend to die and wack their friends backsides as if it was all just a game but you…you never did any of that. And when the children of the court would play Lady Jonquil and Florian the Fool you would just sit your back to the tree and read. And there they would be, surrounding you, dying for your attention, and you wouldn’t even give an ounce. You didn’t care about any of them.”

“…I don’t get it. Do you want more friends?” A frown works itself onto Modi’s face at the thought. “But you have me. Isn’t that enough?”

“No you idiot!” Atla snaps. “I just mean…remember that time in the Blackwood? When I saw the striga I was frozen with fear. I was going to let it claw my head off. And yet you rushed in, without an ounce of seidr, with arms the same width as a sapling tree, and you distracted it. You trapped it. You _killed_ it. And it was like…how could you be so completely unafraid? How could I be like that? How could I be like you?”

Atla’s face is flushed. He can’t meet Modi’s eyes and a rush of warmth fills him.

_This is how he thinks of me?_

“Atla,” Modi says seriously. “Did you know my sister could use seidr?”

Atla’s eyes snap back up. He looks surprised.

“Really? But I never…?”

“My mother never liked it. That Thrud could use seidr. My mother…hates witches. But Thrud still practiced behind her back. Thought herself quite good at it too. I never knew why she stopped until I saw her today. She told me when she was younger she used to spy on you and Loki’s lessons. She told me even the baby lessons she gave to you were things she never once in a lifetime imagined doing.”

“What’s your point?” Atla mumbles.

Modi sweeps Atla’s curls back so he can see him better, putting his forehead to his.

“My point, Atla,” Modi whispers, “is that seidr is a muscle. You can be born with it, but it’s only though practice that you become good at it. Just like me and my sword training. It’s only through long hours of dedication that I’ve gotten to this point, Atla. Isn’t it the same for you?”

Atla looks at Modi with stars in his eyes. “Modi,” he says, his voice breaking.

Modi barely keeps from sighing. “Don’t start crying on me now, please. I only stated a fact.”

Atla hugs him and Modi pulls him closer easily, carding his fingers through Atla’s curls.

“But it’s a compliment from you. And you always tell the truth. And you almost never give out compliments.”

“Hmm,” Modi says, a bit smug. “I guess that’s true.”

“I love you, Modi.” Atla whispers.

And Modi’s fingers freeze in Atla’s hair. He feels his heart skip a beat.

“I love you, too,” he finally whispers back, a lump in his throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i think there's ten chapters left? 12 max?
> 
> next ch. there's gonna be another time skip


	19. One is Silver and the Other is Gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> make new friends, but keep the old...

It is springtime for Prince Modi.

And at eighteen years old, every girl in the realm is just another flower out of many.

Modi has many friends, like always, like every epoch of every age he’s ever been. Multitudes of them where he loses names or mismatches them but still everyone loves him in spite of it. Even laugh because of it. Seem to think he’s joking, will say

“Oh, Modi,” in that endearing way that tells him it really doesn’t matter if he messes up.

Adoration from the masses is unconditional for Prince Modi.

Girls are unconditional too. Girls are everywhere. Girls he picks as easily as flowers from an endless field.

Mostly though, they come to him. Girls will fall into his lap like cherry blossoms falling out of their trees.

But Atla is still the only one that really matters. That is irreplaceable. Whose name is never forgotten, or mismatched.

_(how do you forget the name of the world?)_

Atla disagrees with Modi frequently. He laughs at Modi, and makes jokes at Modi’s expense, and is never afraid to tell him the truth. Is never afraid of making him upset.

Springtime has not yet come for Atla. But at sixteen, it is close. While adolescence is awkward and faces are stretched from all the growing and everything about you is mismatched and uncomfortable sixteen is not so. At sixteen, you are already close to everything you will be. You are at the final stages of how you will look for the rest of your life.

And at sixteen, Atla is turning heads, both female and male. Everything that looked wrong and out of place on him when he was younger look exotic and unique now. The green cat eyes. The ebony hair like a starless sky. Skin as white as snow, with freckles splattered across his face endearingly. His body too is something to look at, with slender wrists, and hips wider than most men’s.

But this is not something Modi has noticed yet. Modi, like everything in his life, sees Atla as a given. Of course Atla is his friend. Of course Atla loves him. Of course, to Atla, Modi is an important existence. The _most_ important.

It is only until the Vanir arrive that Modi realizes Atla is not a given at all.

-

“Your majesty.” Modi bows before Thor, entering the throne room.

Thor looks at him somewhat amused.

“It was not so long ago that you used to call me father. It was the only thing you would call me. Now, I can hardly remember when you called me it last.”

“I learned better, your majesty.”

Thor looks at him, something of respect in his eyes. “I can see that.”

“What is that you called me for?”

Thor turns more diplomatic. “You are eighteen now. Fully a man. Soon, you will be getting marriage proposals. Portraits will be sent in from various realms for your viewing pleasure but I would push for an alliance with the Vanir.”

_Ah_, Modi thinks. _Of course_. _Since he couldn’t force Thrud into doing so, he’s going to force me._

“If beauty is something you are worried about, I assure you Princess Kalissa is the most beautiful in all nine realms. She is also clever, proficient in the arts, and has a love of history and battle strategy especially.”

“She sounds very…princess-sy.” Modi sniffs. “I would prefer a wife like mother. A warrior queen.”

Thor smiles coolly. “You say that as if I’m giving you an option. Let me rephrase it for you – you will marry Princess Kalissa, even if it turns out she has the face of a possum and the body of a roach.”

_As expected_, Modi sighs. Not that he was expecting anything other than this. Arranged marriage was always in the cards for Modi, but bothering Thor was amusing.

“Why the Vanir?” Modi asks, squinting, though secretly, Modi counts his blessings. The Vanir are the most atrractive race after Asgardians.

“They are the most significant threat to our dominion. Every other realm is either properly afraid of us, or don’t have the sufficient technology to go to war against us. Vanir is neither. They aren’t afraid of us, and neither are they lacking in technology. In fact, I would argue they are far more advanced. As such, I have an invited a party of Vanir to come stay with us for a few weeks, Princess Kalissa included.” Thor’s eyes narrow. “This means none of your usual behavior.”

Modi blinks. “How do you mean?”

“It is no secret to me that you have used and discarded of many women inside the walls of Thrudheim. Loki has brought it to my attention that you are with a different girl every week.”

Modi bites his tongue, trying to remain. Of course _of course _he would say something.

“They are merely friends, your majesty.”

Thor looks down at him coldly. “Well keep your _friends _to a minimum these next couple of weeks. I don’t want King Castien to feel disrespected.”

Modi’s eyes bulge. “_Disrespected?_ Don’t tell me you’ve already signed a contract with him?”

Thor gives him a small smile. “Let’s just say I’ve made a small promise.”

_Calm. Keep calm, remember?_

“Then next time, _your majesty_, don’t try to frame it as if I had options.”

Thor shrugs. “I thought it would make it easier for you to deal with. I forget you’re hardly ever easy to deal with.”

Modi turns to leaves, shoulders tight in anger, and Thor says

“They’ll be here in one week, Modi. One week for you to have all the fun you want. And then,” he says darkly, “I expect you to be on your best behavior.”

-

“Are you exited?” Atla asks him, almost jumping besides him.

“No,” Modi replies emotionlessly.

“I’m excited.”

“Why?”

“I mean…well,” Atla splutters, “-they’re new people, right?”

_People who don’t know me as bastard,_ is the unspoken part. Modi understands fast enough.

Modi quickly squeezes Atla’s hand, eyes still focused on the carriage in front of them.

“You’re right.” He says gently. “It will be nice to have fresh faces.”

King Castien Syfiel is the first to come out of the carriage. There is nothing very unique about him for being a Vanir, expect that he has the clearest blue eyes Modi has ever seen. Afterwards is the princess, and she is slightly more interesting.

The first thing he catches sight of is her hair. Pitch black like Atla’s. Modi has never seen black hair on anyone beside Atla so for a moment he can only stare, captivated.

_I like it_, he decides. _I’m glad she has black hair, and not any other color._

The next thing he notices is her eyes. In all honesty, it is probably the first thing people notice about her. They’re the same color as teasel – a beautiful light purple. Her dress has been made to compliment this as well – a deeper purple, the same shade as violet, with an intricate golden lace design. Her face is just as lovely, with a button nose, and a heart shaped face.

_Certainly_, Modi thinks_, it is no surprise that she is considered the most beautiful princess of all nine realms._

The princess greets each of them one by one, and when she gets to Atla, she bends into a graceful courtesy.

“Your highness.” She greets.

Across the yard, Iver’s laugh is louder than glass breaking. Modi glares at him. Atla colors to the tips of his ears.

“I-I’m sorry.” Atla stutters out. “I’m afraid you’ve confused things. I am not the prince.”

Kalissa frowns delicately. “Then who…?”

Modi steps out from the shade of the cherry blossom tree. He bows before her before smiling and giving his greetings.

“That is my brother, Atla. I am Prince Modi, Princess Kalissa.”

When Kalissa meets his eyes, she colors just as pretty as the cherry blossom tree.

* * *

King Castian informs them that he will be only staying the night. Afterwards, he will be leaving the safety of his daughter in Asgardian care.

“I hope you too get to know each better,” are his parting words for the day, before leaving to talk with Thor over more important matters.

It is up to Modi to give a tour of the palace to Princess Kalissa and her entourage. Atla comes along with him.

“This is all so tedious,” Kalissa finally admits, after having toured Odin’s old bedchambers and the old dungeons. “I must tell you I already know much of the overall structure of how Thrudheim is laid out. My father has made me read many books on the subject, as well as books on Asgardian culture in general.”

_Ah_, Modi thinks. _So this has even been more earlier in the making then I previously thought._

“Then let us go the gardens instead. I’d like to properly meet your guests.”

Most of Kalissa’s entourage consists of family. A second cousin here, a nephew there. Modi introduces Atla to them as well.

“Forgive me for saying, but he does not look like you.”

Of course. To anyone, the difference must be like night and day.

Atla looks tense beside him, as if waiting for the word bastard to fall from Modi’s lips. As if he would ever call him that now.

“We have different mothers.” Is all he says. The glint in his eyes prevents anyone from asking further.

“I came to Thrudheim when I was eight.” Atla tells them shyly. Modi has to blink back his surprise. There are many ways to describe Atla, but shy would never be on of them. Until now, apparently. “I’m not very good at sword work but I’m quick with a dagger and I love to read. Midgardian technology in especially fascinates me. I’m reading a book about Cyrus McCormick and the Mechanical Reaper right now.”

“No way.” Says one boy from the group. _Kieran_, Modi thinks. He has brown hair, and the same purple eyes as Kalissa. “I’m reading the same book right now. I have an original copy that my father got me for my birthday last year.”

“No way.” Atla repeats, eyes wide in surprise. “Do you think –“ He pauses, hesitating. “Do you think I could see it?” He asks meekly.

“Of course! It’s in my rooms. We could go now if you like.”

Atla looks ready to jump out of his skin in excitement. He turns to Modi, an almost desperate quality to his tone.

“Can I, Modi?”

There is something about the scene that rubs Modi the wrong way. The fact is, Modi does not want Atla to leave. He does not want to be left alone with a bunch of Vanir. But there is also the fact that every second that he doesn’t say yes, is another second the Vanir look at him strangely, so Modi finally concedes with a grunted yes.

“Your brother is very pretty,” Kalissa says as Atla and Kieran walk away.

“Yes yes – what?” Modi had been too busy watching Atla walk away that he hadn’t paid any attention to what Kalissa was saying.

“I thought he was a girl at first.” One of Kalissa’s cousins giggle. Kalissa faces her with a look co-conspirators would share. “Didn’t you think so too? My gosh, if he really was a girl he would’ve taken my title as prettiest of all the realms!”

Everybody laughs. Modi looks at them oddly, and wonders exactly what they see when they look at his brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i sense jealousy on the horizon....


	20. All Great and Precious Things

In Atla’s eyes, Modi is the sun.

Modi has been the sun ever since he saved him from those dark days in the forest, saved him from the striga, saved him from a life in the palace without a friend in any corner.

You know Modi is the sun, because when the light strikes his hair, he shines brighter than any star or crown Atla has ever seen.

Modi is strong. Modi is brave. The fact of the matter is, Modi doesn’t need anyone.

Atla has grown up keenly aware of this fact. It was obvious, first, when they came back from the forest and Modi gave up his old friends without another word.

You should’ve seen their faces. The faces of everyone one of them, defeated, desperate, reaching for him, and who could blame them? They’d held a star in their hands, and they’d dropped it. You should’ve seen the way Iver burned. Him more than anybody. The humiliation plain on his face. No, he had never held any love for Modi, but he knew exactly what he had lost, and what it would cost him.

Of course, a star is never lonely for long. Soon, new planets came to orbit around him, even more than before. Atla was only one of the many.

The thing about Modi was, he had his own gravitational pull. He attracted things to him without even trying. But was he ever pulled? Did he ever need anybody?

It was obvious, again, that the answer was no when Modi took the slap from his father and even apologized before him. Modi didn’t need love or approval from Thor, or his mother, or his sister, not like Atla did. Atla was always seeking approval from his parents. Modi didn’t need it.

_How do you live that way? Needing no one but yourself?_

However, nowhere was it more prominent that Modi didn’t need anyone than in the ring.

Modi, even in those first days when Atla just entered the palace, was fearless. The first time Alta saw Modi draw a sword was when he was eight and Modi just ten. The other boy that day had been thirteen. Thirteen, in Atla’s eyes, was already as old as a man of age. And certainly, besides Modi’s small ten year old frame, that’s what it looked like.

At thirteen, you are already beginning to change into something more. At Modi’s small ten, you are still yet a child.

But when Modi held his sword against the boy’s throat he had not looked like a child.

He had not looked like a child at all.

It was not always like this, however. Usually, Modi lost. This seems like a bad thing, but the truth of the matter is that Modi only ever practiced with boys that were older than him. If it was a friendly spar he could train with a peer, but the real spars were always with older boys.

It was a hard thing to watch, in the beginning, as the older boys played with him easily. Teased and danced out of his way and knocked him on his back as if he were a play thing. If it was hard to watch for Atla, he has no idea how it must have felt. Spars were always public. Every boy would watch as Modi was played with. Iver would laugh and call out obscenities.

But the worst thing would have to be when Thor came to spar.

He’d come down every so often to ask on Modi’s progress. Every time, trainer Eric would say that it was progressing adequately. And every time, Thor would make a face as if he weren’t impressed at all. He’d draw his sword, and call Modi forth.

_(it was a horrible sound that echoed in the courtyard. the sound of papa’s steel leaving his sheath)_

Atla knew these were the worst times for Modi as well. Modi would stiffen whenever papa walked into the training yards, and his jaw would go tight, and it looked almost like he wanted to hide inside himself like a turtle.

Sometimes the spars would be over in the blink of an eye. Sometimes, Thor would draw them out painfully.

No one said anything during these spars. No one would laugh or scream obscenities. Nobody dared. Maybe this was why it was worse. You could hear the way Modi would desperately gasp for breath with every block, with every hit he made. And even if you could not hear it, it would be obvious on his face: a burning red from exerting himself.

Either way, every time, the ending was always the same: Modi flat on his back.

And every time Atla would comfort him.

Modi would lie on his back until papa would walk out and then he would stand and leave the courtyard. After a certain amount of time had passed, Atla would follow, going to the old stable Modi had once found him in.

Modi would be sitting with his back against one of the horse stall, head in his lap, and Atla would sit next to him.

“I hate him.” Modi would say, voice full of venom, and Atla would lay a gentle hand on his head, and Modi would start to cry, falling into Atla’s lap and Atla letting him.

“I don’t understand.” Atla would whisper. “Why can’t you spar against boys your own age?”

“Thor doesn’t allow it.” Modi would mutter. “He says I’m a prince, and it’s not fair for me to spar against boys my own age. That I must spar against my betters.”

Atla felt a self-righteous anger light up inside him, felt a shred of disgust for his father which had had never felt before previously. “That’s not fair. Maybe if I speak to him-“

Modi, where he had his arms wrapped around Atla’s waist, dug in tighter.

“No.” He said sharply. “Don’t say anything. It’s fine.”

“But-!”

“It’s fine,” Modi cut in, “because there’s a simple solution.” His black eyes, staring vaguely in some direction, looked more infinite than space. “All I have to do is beat them. Beat them until I have no betters – until there is no one better than me.”

Atla felt something like a shiver run through him at Modi’s cold words. He made it sound so simple. Like something destined to come to pass. It felt like Atla had been pulled even tighter into Modi’s orbit, because who could resist that kind of strength? That kind of confidence?

Alta asked his father later, why he had done such a thing.

“The things you force Modi to do you would never force me into doing. Why is that?”

Papa gave Alta a glib look. “How do you mean?”

“I mean like the sword training. And the way you pit him against older boys. And the way you embarrass him.” Atla felt his face color in anger. “_That’s_ what I mean.”

Thor had sighed. “The things I make Modi do,” he said carefully, “I make him do, because he is not mine.”

Atla felt something live and electric crackle on his skin. He felt like he was past the point of being angry.

“He _is_ yours. He is yours like I am yours-“

“-and he is not mine, because he is a prince.”

The anger drained away, and left in its place confusion.

“What?”

“You are not like, Modi, Atla. You do not share his responsibilities or obligations. You are,” Thor said, reaching gently to hold Atla’s face in his hands, “wonderfully, and perfectly, mine. But Thrud and Modi,” he continues gently, “have been pieces on a board since the day they were born. Had I spoiled them as I spoiled you, they would be prepared for nothing. Had I been gentle with them, they would’ve have shattered long ago against Thrudheim’s marble floor. I train Modi the way I do,” he said, voice harder this time, “because I do not want him to break.”

Thor pulls away to look at the window.

“A prince belongs to the people.” He says, eyes far away. “A prince is not really a person, like a king is not really a person. They are titles. They are responsibilities. They have no mother and they have no father. They live only to serve the wishes of the greater good.”

Alta stared at his father, staring out the window.

“That sounds lonely.” He finally said.

“All great and precious things are lonely.” Thor replied simply.

-

As Modi grew, so did the number of planets surrounding him.

_Lonely_, Atla thought staring at him. _Lonely? What a strange and inaccurate way to describe Modi._

No, the one that was lonely was Atla. Because while it was obvious that Modi didn’t need anyone, Atla needed him.

Modi was his brother. Modi was his only friend, the only person who would talk to him with a smile on his face. Modi was Atla’s everything.

_(modi was everyone’s everything)_

And every year that he grew, his gravitational pull become stronger, and he skills with a sword even more notorious, and just as he promised, there was no one in the training yards that was better than him.

No one laughed now. No one had dared laughed for a long time now. Everything that had once looked so funny to everyone glinted dangerously in the light. At eighteen, Modi was a sight to behold. He was taller than all the boys his age, even taller than some older than him, and had a body toned for battle. His jawline was sharper than dwarfish steel, hair a deep gold, and eyes so black they seemed to pin you down.

Atla had been in love with him for a while now.

And what a horrible time to be in love with Modi Thorson. When Modi hit 16, that’s when the playing around started. Modi was no longer interested in the little boy games they were so used to playing. No, he didn’t like those games anymore. Instead, he started playing new games with girls.

Atla had wrinkled his nose when Modi said he would go play with Maja Hansen. He had been fourteen at the time.

“Since when do play with girls?” Atla had asked, indignant. “You told me once there was no use for girls besides cooking dinner!”

Modi had laughed then, something large and bright and beautiful. It was a nice laugh, but it was a laugh directed at Atla, and it felt like he was being left out of a inside joke. Atla didn’t like it all.

“Well,” Modi had replied, a lazy smirk on his face, “let’s just say I found a use for them.”

After that, Modi was always busy with one thing or another. If he wasn’t playing games with a girl (of which he had a different one every week) he was with some other of his closest friends, like Matias Nielsen or Veleif Skrondgen. They’d do ‘adult things’ as Modi liked to call them, like go on hunting parties or go on raids in lawless Jotunheim.

Atla had always known him and Modi didn’t have the same interests but nowhere was this more evident than in the increasing time Modi spent with Matias and Vel.

In those three years where Atla was still only a child and Modi was growing into an adult Atla spent a lot of time crying. He missed Modi dreadfully, missed the way they used to be inseparable, and the pranks they would come up with deviously together. Atla didn’t understand Modi’s new interests or his friends or even the girls he hung around with. At the very least, Atla had always thought himself more interesting than a girl. What could Modi have in common with Maja Hansen or Viktoria Pender that he didn’t have in common with Atla? _Surely_ he and Modi had more common interests than he did with those girls.

The day Atla found out what exactly it was Modi saw in these girls was the day his feelings changed.

That night Atla had an old nightmare about the Blackwood. It was a long time since he had even dreamt anything let alone had a nightmare but he had still been shaken up. He didn’t even think of _not_ going to Modi’s room. Atla always went to Modi’s room whenever he was troubled, maybe more so when he was a kid, but why should now be any different?

But when Atla when to Modi’s room he found it empty. A deep sense of disappointment crashed into him, and at the same time, a deep sense of confusion. Where could he be this late at night? With Matias and Vel, planning some trick or another?

The thought made him bite his lip in envy. He closed the door to Modi’s room and instead decided to go to the kitchens to get some water.

Atla wishes, so many times in his mind, that he had never done so. He thinks of all the other things he could’ve done, he thinks of how much closer his room was than the kitchens, he thinks about how easy it would’ve been not to get a cup of water. He knows if he hadn’t, he would’ve never known the pain of loving someone who could never – would never – love you back.

But Atla, at fifteen, doesn’t know these things. He doesn’t know what’s going to happen. So when he hears the sounds coming from the kitchen – a deep groaning, panting, the sound of something dying – he runs towards the sound instead of away from it.

But no one is dying. Instead, Maja Hendersen is pressed against a table, her head laying on her hands, as Modi plows into her from behind.

At first, Atla’s mind blanks. He has no idea what’s happening. But soon Modi’s moans and the way he is arched over Maja click in Atla’s head and he knows. He knows what is happening. How could he not when he has been alive for fifteen springs and seen animals mounting the same way? When he has seen dogs and horses and cats in heat and now Modi, now Modi, now spring has come for Modi.

Atla shouldn’t feel anything. He shouldn’t. He’s seen animals mount each other before, and isn’t Modi not but another animal? Is Modi not his brother? Atla should choke trying to hold in his laughter looking at the scene. Hasn’t he laughed with Modi before when the Blacksmith’s mutt tried to breed Lady Finna’s pureblood Boykin Spaniel?

He should leave. But Atla does not leave. And he does not laugh.

No, instead, Atla seems fixed in place. He feels the air has left his lungs. Modi at seventeen is a wonder to behold. Atla has always known Modi to be handsome, has always been aware of it in some way, but now more than ever his awareness is at an all-time high.

Modi’s teeth are bared in a snarl as he fucks into Maja, one hand holding her skirts up and the other on her neck, holding her down to the table. It looks savage, it _is_ savage, but Maja seems to like it, keens like a cat in heat, so loud and flowery it makes Atla sick.

“You like that you whore?” Modi snarls as he thrusts into her. “You like the feel of my cock fucking into you? You like the feeling of me inside you?”

Atla feels his face color, his heart beat quicker. He has seen many sides of Modi – Modi cool and collected, Modi cold and closed off, Modi smiling at one of Atla’s jokes, Modi happy – but he has never seen this side. Never seen this savagery, this level of cruelty – in such a darkly erotic way.

Maja is drooling onto the table, her face a blotchy red.

“Modi, please.” She moans. “Modi please…”

“Say it.” He bites back, this time with a particularly brutal thrust, the lean cords of his muscles glinting in the light, the broad of his back drenched with sweat, blonde locks plastered to his face, his eyes blacker than oblivion.

“Modi!” She screams. “I need it! Your cock, I want it, more, more, Modi, _please_, I want _die _on your cock…”

The change is instant. Modi coos, “Good girl,” and then brings both his hands to rest on Maja’s waist, slamming her hips onto his cock.

Maja screams again, blubbery words coming out of her, loud moans and keening, as Modi unflinchingly brings her ass back down his cock over and over again, slamming into her with brutal force, biting into his lip, nothing but grunts coming out of him, until finally he comes.

Atla’s runs away as soon as he does, feeling breathless and hot and ashamed.

There is a wetness between his legs and he knows what it means.

-

_So these are the things Modi can’t do with Atla_.

-

After that, everything changes for Atla. Even stronger than Atla’s arousal at the scene had been his heartbreak. Every time Modi thrust into her, every time he made a pained face like it wasn’t enough, was like another hurt carved into Atla’s chest. Envy and jealously and anger and hurt bled deep into his heart, felt like poison, felt like suffocating. Watching the scene had felt like someone was hollowing him out, taking everything they could out of him.

_How long have I loved him? How long have I felt this way?_

Either way, it doesn’t matter, because Atla is still a kid, and Modi is steadily reaching adulthood. He hardly spends enough time with Atla these days to notice what has changed. Atla, now, cannot stand to be so close to Modi. Cannot stand to share the same touches they used to do unthinkingly. He also cannot stand to stare at Modi too long for fear of blushing. Everything about Modi is so strong and masculine and handsome that Atla cannot help but feel his heart tremble when he’s near.

_He’s everything I wanted to be. And now, he’s everything I want._

When Atla see’s Modi’s fiancée for the first time, an ugly hatred wells up in his heart. It feels thick and oily and clogging. It feels more powerful than any hatred he has ever felt for Iver or Bjorn or any of the other children of the court. It feels dangerous. Atla has to be careful when he’s near Kalissa Syfiel because he can feel his seidr crackle maliciously in response.

When Modi smiles at her from under the cherry blossom tree, Atla feels sharp pinpricks piercing his heart, and the temperature drops down a couple degrees. No one catches it except for mother, who stares at him from across the court with a sharp look in her eyes.

It’s crazy how a single word or gesture from Modi can influence Atla’s entire mood. When Modi glares at everyone for asking why Atla and him look so different, Atla feels his heart soar. When Modi laughs at something Kalissa says, his heart drops. When Modi defends him again, there goes his heart soaring once again. And when inevitably he turns his attention to Kalissa, his mood dampens as well.

It’s like a goddamn Midgardian roller coaster.

_When are you going to learn, Atla? Sixteen years old, and still, you hang on to Modi’s every word. You will never be like Kalissa. Nine hells, you will never be like Maja Hendersen. And Modi will never see you that way, ever._

Depressed with these thoughts, Kieran is the nice surprise.

Atla doesn’t expect anyone to recognize the strange old Midgardian book he mentions, but when one of the boys of Kalissa’s party does, he is so surprised and delighted that all and any thoughts to Modi go straight out the window.

Kieran Genjor is the same age as Modi but he doesn’t look it. Of course, this isn’t fair to Kieran, since Modi is as close to perfect as anyone can be – but Kieran isn’t too bad himself.

Kieran is objectively handsome. His hands are softer than Modi’s, but he has more muscles than Atla, and he isn’t as lean as him either, so it’s obvious he’s been trained in sword work far more than Atla has ever been. Like most Vanir, his face is narrow, and his eyes are a beautiful deep violet, with brown hair and lips with a pronounced cupid’s bow.

Atla likes Kieran. He likes that Kieran is smart, and shares the same interests as him – things Modi would have never been interested in. He thinks Kieran is a nice person.

What Atla doesn’t know then is that Kieran will change everything.


	21. The Lord Giveth, and the Lord Taketh Away

“I can’t believe I’ve met another person on Asgard that has read the Mechanical Reaper!” Atla says, shock and delight coloring his tone.

“Me too.” Kieran says back, grinning. “I mean, I never found anyone on Vanaheim who liked McCormick’s works, so of course, I thought the chance of finding someone on Asgard who liked him was practically nonexistent.”

Atla squints. “Why’s that?”

And Kieran colors, as if he’s just realized what he’s said. “I’m sorry. I just meant that – well – Asgard isn’t really known for its scholarly pursuits.” He says sheepishly.

Atla thinks of Modi’s millions of days spent in the training yards and simply laughs. He thinks of Iver, with his mangled dominant hand, still fighting with his left hand to be a good swordsman when another trade would probably come to him easier.

“Don’t be. What you said isn’t wrong. Most Asgardians don’t put much stock in Midgardian inventions or Midgardian anything, let alone texts.”

Kieran smiles in response, obviously relieved, and then they spend pretty much the whole week discussing the various parts of McCormick’s Mechanical Reaper. They also discuss other texts from different realms, some philosophical, others talking about mathematical anomalies or weather patterns on the seven moons of Jenvidya – basically a whole bunch of things.

They try to replicate their own mechanical reaper – with disastrous results but it’s still funny in the end. They also test out old dwarfish theories about gravity and sometimes go into the Deadwood to collect samples of the soil to figure out exactly _why_ it’s so dead.

“The ph is perfectly fine.” Kieran tells him, eyebrows knitted in confusion. “I don’t understand why nothing grows there. And it’s not like it’s red clay. It’s perfectly good soil. There’s no reason for everything to be dead.”

Atla checks the ph again, frowning as well when he sees the perfectly average 6.5. The same ph as the soil in the Blackwood.

“I don’t understand it either.”

Kieran shrugs. “Maybe it’s a curse?”

Atla feels himself stiffen. “How do you mean?”

Kieran stares at him oddly. “Like, maybe it’s seidr? That’s the only rational explanation.”

“So you’re saying a witch placed a curse on the Deadwood?”

Kieran frowns. “A witch? You know that’s seriously offensive language right? I just meant like an ordinary citizen. Someone who has seidr.”

Atla feels his heart pounding. He doesn’t like talking about witches or seidr. He knows seidr is outlawed in Asgard. He remembers every word his mama has told him about her multiple hangings and being chased down by mobs. He remembers how both her and Thor always warned him to keep it hidden. That it was the difference between life and death. And now here is this strange Vanir boy, throwing around the words like they’re nothing, like they’re not treasonous or deadly.

“Offensive? How is ‘witch’ offensive?”

Kieran stares blankly. “Atla…” he starts slowly, “…witch is a slur. It’s a slur for people who practice seidr. I know you’re Asgardian, but I thought you were better than that. My sister practices seidr you know. So it hurts when you say that.”

Atla feels himself flush. “I didn’t mean – I didn’t know witch was a bad thing. I mean, obviously, I know a witch _is a bad thing_ \- at least in Asgard-“ Atla corrects quickly, when Kieran makes a face, “but I didn’t know the word _itself_ was bad.”

Kieran blinks. “Oh. Sorry, I- I jumped to conclusions.”

Atla quickly shakes his head. “No, it’s fine. You said your sister practices seidr? It’s not outlawed in Vanir?”

Kieran’s eyebrows knit again, focused back on the topic at hand. “See, that’s the thing I’m always stumped on. How can a realm like Asgard, arguably the most powerful of all nine realms, be so backward in its thinking? I’ve never understood the prejudice against seidr users. I’ve never understood why Asgard was so bent on imprisoning and killing them all. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not as bad as it was when Odin the Matchless was in power, but still. Wouldn’t a country, being powerful, be happy to have even more power? And what is seidr but power?”

Atla’s heart is pounding in his ears. “To be honest,” he says, throat dry, “I’ve never understood it either.”

“Right?” Kieran says, turning to look at him. “In Vanaheim, people with seidr are treated like Gods. The first time my sister presented my parents sent her straight to the Church of Five Stars. It costs a lot of money but they train girls born with seidr to become the next High Priestess. In Vanaheim, the High Priestess is the second highest ranking authority. She is the King’s most valuable advisor. In essence, she’s his oracle. My sister wants to become the next Frigga Fivestar. She was a really powerful priestess back in the time of Odin the Matchless. I think my sister has a good chance too.”

“So…in Vanaheim…seidr is a good thing?”

“Definitely.” Kieran nods his head emphatically. “In Vanir we have a word for them – Kjaris. It means beloved by God. It’s just too bad boys can’t be seidr users. I would _kill_ to be able to do even a fraction of the things my sister can do.”

“Yeah.” Atla says faintly. “It’s too bad.”

-

It’s a strange thing to hear seidr be treated with such respect. It makes Atla wonder how his life would have turned out if he’d been raised in Vanaheim instead of Asgard. It makes him think he’d probably have a lot of friends. Atla is on good terms with the rest of the Vanir, besides Kalissa, because while they may not share a lot of the obscure interests Atla has, the Vanir have a lot of scholarly interests in general.

The time the Vanir party spends in Asgard is at the same time the best and worst thing to ever happen to Atla. The best because he has more friends than he’s ever had and the worst because Kalissa is here, and he is, at the same time, losing the _best_ friend he’s ever had.

Atla spends most his time with Kieran above all else. No one cares that he’s a bastard, or about his strange black hair, and no one is the least bit hostile. Kieran is the one he clicks with the most though, so they spend most days in his quarters, or go out into the woods to conduct research experiments.

They’re collecting fungi off trees in the Blackwood when Atla trips over a log and almost splits his head open. Luckily for him, Kieran is there to catch him. He catches Atla by the wrist and uses his other hand to wrap around Atla’s waist, pulling him tightly to himself.

“Be careful.” Kieran says, almost breathlessly, and his violet eyes seem brighter than usual.

Kieran is holding him so tight that Atla can feel his breath on his face when he speaks, and he feels uncomfortable all of a sudden. He pushes away from Kieran.

“Sorry.” He laughs awkwardly. “I’m not usually that clumsy.”

“It’s fine.” Kieran replies quietly, his hand still wrapped around Atla’s wrists. Atla waits patiently for him to let go, but he doesn’t, and he’s about to say something about it when Kieran beats him to it.

“Your wrists are really small.” He says, a smile in his voice. “I mean, I know Vanir are supposed to be built leaner than Asgardians, but your wrist is even thinner than my sister’s.”

Atla feels a flash of anger burn bright in him, and he pulls away quickly.

“What are you trying to say? That I’m weak?”

Kieran flushes instantly. “That’s not what I was trying to say, I only meant –“

“I may not be good at sword work like my brother, or most Asgardians,” Atla says hotly, “and I may be built even smaller than most Vanir, but that doesn’t mean I’m weak. I can do things you wouldn’t even dream of. I can-“ _turn water into wine, create a fire with a snap of my fingers, bend a wolf into submission_, “…I’m really good with knives.” Atla finishes weakly.

_As if I could tell him I use seidr._

“I know.” Kieran says gently. “I’m not trying to imply, or say, that you’re weak. I was just trying to – well I wanted to say –“ Kieran takes a deep breath, his face a dangerous shade of red. He looks at Atla with an intense violet gaze. “I just wanted to say that you’re really pretty. That’s all.” He runs a rough hand through his coffee colored hair. “I don’t know why I started with some obscure reference to your wrists. That was weird.”

Now it’s Atla’s turn to color. He looks at the ground, his fingers playing with a loose thread of fabric.

“But I’m not a girl.” He stammers.

_No one’s ever called me pretty_, he thinks. Strange. Funny looking, maybe. But never pretty.

Kieran laughs. “You don’t have to be a girl to be pretty.”

Atla scratches the back of his neck awkwardly. “Thanks, I guess.”

Kieran gives him an odd look, as if he’s disappointed with something.

“I don’t want you to say thanks,” he says, before stepping closer to Atla. His hand reaches, gently, to cup Atla’s. Kieran’s eyes are still strangely fixed on his.

“Uh…” Atla says, confused. “Okay?”

Kieran kisses him. Atla is so surprised at first that he doesn’t pull away, frozen in shock. And then Kieran’s tongue touches his and Atla pushes him so hard he falls to the ground.

“What are you doing?” He snaps.

Kieran stares at him from the ground, gob smacked. “Kissing you.”

“Why!”

Kieran blinks. “Because I like you. Because I thought – _oh god_ – I thought you liked me too.” Kieran says the last bit almost to himself, as if realizing something. “You don’t like me that way, do you?”

“No! Of course not!” Atla’s face feels like it’s on fire. “Why would you think that?”

“I mean we spend so much time together. And you said I was the coolest person you knew. You said – _you said_ you liked me. And what about all the times we spent in my room?” Kieran says accusingly.

“Liked you as a person! As a friend!” Atla says desperately. “And as for the time we spent in your room…” Atla’s heart drops. Was he sending the wrong signals? “You’re my first friend.” _Outside of Modi_. “I didn’t think it meant…I didn’t think it meant more than it did.”

Atla feels bad all of a sudden. Nine hells, was he leading Kieran on? Did he accidentally hurt his feelings?

“I’m sorry.” Atla splutters out. “I didn’t mean to –“

“_No no no_.” Kieran shakes his head. “Don’t – don’t apologize. I just – I really thought –“ Kieran laughs all of a sudden, something self-conscious and sad. “Nine hells.” He curses.

There’s an awkward silence before Kieran makes to stand up.

“Uh…I’m going to go now. Yeah. Sorry.”

Kieran turns to leave and every step he takes makes Atla feel worse. He doesn’t want things to be awkward between them. He doesn’t want Kieran to leave like this. He doesn’t want –

And then Atla hears Kieran let out a blood curdling scream, and his heart drops right down to his shoes.

-

Atla races to the direction of the scream and finds Kieran, his leg stuck in a trap, blood everywhere and a bones jutting out painfully.

“Shit.” Atla curses, the blood leaving his face. “Shit shit **_shit!”_**

Kieran howls again, blood leaving his body in an alarmingly fast rate, and Atla doesn’t know what to do.

“Atla…” He gasps painfully. “You have to…you have to run back to Thrudheim. Find somebody…bring them here…before I bleed out.”

Kieran’s leg is twisted in every wrong direction possible. Atla looks at the trap, and then looks at Kieran, and a horrible sinking feeling fills him.

He knows who’s trap it is.

_Stupid stupid **stupid**_**.** _How could I forget that the Blackwood was Modi’s trapping grounds? He has every kind of trap set here to catch things from quail to hulking basfist bears!_

Atla wants to run back the palace. He wants to run back for help. He knows, in this type of situation, what the best option is: using his seidr. But he doesn’t want to. He can’t. Not even for Kieran. Not even if _not _using his seidr means Kieran will probably bleed out before he finds help.

But Modi changes things. This is _his_ hunting trap. And Kieran is Princess Kalissa’s _cousin_. If Kieran dies before Atla can bring help back, everything will go down on Modi. King Castian will demand to know whose trap killed his nephew. The arranged marriage will be ruined. The Vanir will demand punishment. And Thor, no doubt, will give it to them.

But if Atla shows Kieran his seidr, he’ll know his mother is a witch as well, and then what? What will happen to mama? What will happen to papa? Every warning they’ve ever told him? Every warning _Modi_ has ever told him?

_‘Seidr is outlawed here. Do you know what would have happened if Iver was just a little more brighter? He would’ve known something was happening. He would’ve reported you. You would’ve hanged. And father would be implicated.’_

Atla sees a million outcomes in his head all at once. His mother chased out by mobs, once again. His father vilified. Modi being given one hundred lashes. Modi dead. His mother dead. His father dead.

Every breath that Kieran takes is becoming shallower and shallower. He’s no longer screaming. He’s no longer making any type of noise whatsoever.

_It’s now or never._

Atla stands up calmly and walks away. When he finds what he’s looking for, a baby bird in a nest, he carries it in his hands gently and walks back to Kieran.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers to the bird, before snapping its neck, and bringing the blood back into Kieran’s body.

-

_The earth giveth, and the earth taketh away._

That is the first rule of seidr use. Loki tells this to him often. You can not make something out of nothing. You want to conjure a sword? Transfigure it from something else.

You want to save a life? You take a life away.

Kieran needs blood, so Atla has to spill blood to give it to him. When Modi was sick all those years ago, it was easier. There were herbs to cure that. And when herbs weren’t enough, Atla gave Modi his health, which drained him, but it still didn’t mean taking a life.

Atla has never had to use this kind of seidr before, and it kills him to do so. He can’t bear to look at the twisted little body of the innocent bird as he tries his best to fix Kieran’s leg.

The first thing he does is take Kieran’s leg out of the trap. That’s the worst part. He presses the hidden gear on the underside of it to release the bite and it’s even worse than before. Blood is spurting out viciously now in every direction, Kieran’s leg only a remnant of mangled flesh.

He thinks of Modi as he tries to fix it. He thinks of Modi’s smiling face. He thinks of Modi laughing. He thinks of Modi when he was gentle with him, when he brought him close to his chest during thunderstorms and told him everything would be alright. He thinks of Modi when his father is disappointed in him. He thinks of the pained face Modi makes. He thinks of the way Modi tries to hide it with a hard mask.

He thinks of what King Castian would’ve asked in exchange for his dead nephew. Probably, he would’ve asked for Modi’s head. No lash would’ve been enough to cure the black cloud around his heart.

He thinks of Modi’s head separated from his body and the fear is so instant, so visceral, he feels a flare of seidr burst out of him, desperate to bring Kieran back to consciousness.

When Kieran finally opens his eyes his leg is no longer a mangled mess. There is blood on the ground but you wouldn’t be able to tell it came from Kieran’s leg if you looked. Kieran’s leg looks perfectly fine. Kieran himself, on the other hand, looks like he’s in shock.

“You-“ He starts, then closes his mouth. He touches his leg. Turns back to face Atla. “How-?”

Atla is shaking. He feels like he’s at the edge of a breakdown. Something wet is running down his face and belatedly, he realizes he’s crying.

“You can’t-you can’t tell anyone.” He gasps. “My mother- oh god, my mother –“ A tremor runs down his spine. He thinks of his precious mama, her feet dangling uselessly in the air, a rope around her neck. He knows, logically, this is not how you kill a witch. He knows it would only be his mama pretending to be dead. But still, he does not think he could take seeing her that way. Because of him.

Kieran takes a step towards him cautiously.

“Atla-“

Atla raises a hand to stop him. “Don’t.” He warns, and Kieran looks like he’s frozen in place. “You cant tell- you cant tell anyone. If you tell, if you _dare_ tell-oh god how am I gonna keep you from telling? How-?”

There is chill in the air. The leaves, once laying dead around Atla’s feet, now rustle a bit, before rising in the air around him. There is a look in Kieran’s eyes that Atla doesn’t recognize.

“Atla.”

“How am I-?”

“Atla.”

“-what did I do-“

** _“Atla!”_ **

The leaves fall back to the ground. The wind that had been mysteriously circling vanishes. Atla feels like he’s been slapped awake.

“There’s a spell.” Kieran says quietly. “There’s a spell you can use to bind me to secrecy. It’s one of the first things you learn in the Church of Fivestars. I saw my sister perform it once. I can teach you the words and then – then I wouldn’t be able to say anything. On threat of death.”

Atla stares at him. Kieran stares back.

“Okay.” Atla feels, all at once, dangerously calm. He takes a deep breath. “Okay, teach it to me.”

-

A couple of days later, in the pastures behind Thrudheim, a prince and a princess go out riding together.

“I have not seen my brother for days.” Modi tells Kalissa, securely on his thoroughbred. “I wonder what he’s been doing.”

“Atla?” Kalissa pipes up. She waves a hand in the air unthinkingly. “He’s been with my cousin Kieran. They’ve rarely been apart these days. To be honest,” Kalissa moves closer to Modi, whispers in his ear, “I think Kieran has a little crush.”

Modi jerks in surprise, almost falling off his horse.

“What? They’re both _boys_.” Modi spits out.

Kalissa shrugs. “Things like that don’t matter in Vanaheim. They’re quite close, you know.” She says, something curious in her tone. “I’ve never seen Kieran…act this way before. Something must have happened. They’re rarely apart these days. And your brother is quite pretty.”

Something ugly fills every corner of Modi’s bones.

“My brother is only sixteen.” Modi says dangerously.

Kalissa laughs. “And my cousin is eighteen! You speak as if Kieran were an old man. You cannot tell me you didn’t have trysts at his age.”

Kalissa rolls her eyes when Modi doesn’t say anything.

“Either way, this was bound to happen one day or another. Your brother will not follow you forever, Modi. He is close to marrying age. One day he won’t even live in Thrudheim, let alone remember you.”

Modi’s face goes cold. “My brother is _mine_. And he will stay by my side forever.”

He rides off before Kalissa can put another word in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kind of scared this is going to go past 70,000 words. fuck.


	22. War Witch

_Atla and…Kieran?_

The thought is so ridiculous Modi can’t help but laugh. He doesn’t know what happens on Vanir, but in Asgard, two boys together is not usually accepted. Atla, having been raised in Asgard, must feel the same way. No way he returns the feelings of that vain-looking Vanir boy.

But even if he doesn’t, the idea of them together still grates at Modi. He doesn’t like the fact that he hasn’t seen Atla for days. Sure, they aren’t as close as they were when they were children, as Modi has a relentless amount of responsibilities these days, but Atla would always make a habit to visit him once a day to see what he was doing.

Now, however, he doesn’t even bother. Hasn’t been by Modi’s study room once.

This fact irks at him. What irks him even more is that he now realizes how much their relationship was Atla coming to him, and not the other way around. It makes him feel slightly guilty. It makes him think of all the sad faces Atla would make whenever he went off with Matias and Vel.

So, Modi decides it’s his turn to go looing for Atla, and not the other way around. He frowns when he sees he isn’t in his rooms, and then asks a nearby attendant if she’s seen him.

“Ase’s boy?” The maid’s eyebrows crinkle. “He’s usually in Lord Kieran’s room. Sometimes he even spends the night.”

Modi’s blood runs cold. “Spends the night?” He repeats stupidly.

“Yes.” The maid looks at him odd. “That’s what I said.”

Modi tries to ignore the ugly feeling that crashes into him at her words. He doesn’t have a name for the feeling, and he doesn’t recognize it. Instead, he goes marching to Kieran’s room.

Modi knocks on the door a couple of times, but when there’s no response, he simply opens the door. It is his home, after all.

He catches sight of Atla and Kieran, heads bent together, looking over some old tome, and he swears he sees something like a flash of seidr, but then he blinks at it’s gone.

_Strange._

Atla is the first one to catch sight of him. His eyes almost bulge out of their sockets in surprise and he quickly shoves the book under Kieran’s bed.

“Modi!” He says, voice weirdly high pitched.

_Even stranger._

Kieran looks surprised as well at his intrusion, but quickly hides it. He bows his head graciously.

“Prince Modi.”

“Kieran.” Modi acknowledges distastefully, before turning back to face Atla.

“I went to your rooms.” He says coolly. “Imagine my surprise when they told me you hadn’t slept there for days.”

Atla smiles nervously, a bad habit of his. “Umm…can we-can we talk about this outside?”

Modi stares at him. Then he sighs. “Okay. Let’s go.”

Atla makes to stand but Kieran quickly grabs his wrist. He doesn’t even look at Modi when he says

“You don’t have to go. You don’t have to talk to him about it, just because he says so.”

_What. The. **Hell?**_

Modi doesn’t anger easily, but he finds this Kieran is quickly getting on his nerves.

“Excuse me?” He says sharply.

Atla must recognize how angry Modi is, because he quickly moves himself out of Kieran’s grip.

“It’s okay, Kieran.” He says gently. “I want to talk to him.”

If Modi was angry before, he’s moved past it now. He’s furious. Something is burning low in his belly and it feels ready to explode at any moment.

When they get to the hall Modi is quick to confront Atla.

“What the hell was that?” He spits.

Atla blinks at the ferociousness in his tone. “What?”

_‘You don’t have to talk to him if you don’t want to.’_ Modi simpers, mimicking Kieran. “Who the hell does he think he _is?_” Modi snarls. “Does he think he knows you better than me? Does he think he’s _closer_ to you than me?”

“Modi.” Atla tries desperately, grabbing Modi’s hand. “You know it’s not like that. You know he doesn’t know me better than you. You know-“ Atla says, eyes a deep blue, “-there isn’t anyone closer to me than you.”

The words are so pretty, so deliciously sweet, that some of Modi’s hackles can’t help but drop. He feels soothed under Atla’s touch. He’s still annoyed, but no longer as angry.

“Then why are you hanging around him so much?” Modi frowns. “I haven’t seen you in days. I miss you, Atla.”

Atla seems to tremble at Modi’s words. “I – oh. Oh.” Atla colors prettily. “I just. Well,” he says, very carefully, “it’s just I’ve never had a friend like this before. Not to get it wrong, you’re my best friend, of course, you’re my brother, but it’s nice…to have another friend. Like you have Matias and Vel.”

_Like you have the rest of the castle_ is unspoken.

Modi doesn’t like the bitter feeling that fills him at Atla’s words but still he should…accept them. Having friends isn’t a crime. Wanting a friend isn’t a crime. Even if the friend in question isn’t exactly what Modi had in mind.

“Well,” he sighs, loud and dramatically. “I guess you’re right. But you could at least stay in your own room,” he adds accusingly.

“Uh, well, I have-I have nightmares,” Atla stutters out. “So I don’t really want to stay in my room…” He trails off ineloquently.

Modi feels a smile grace his lips. He runs his hands down Atla’s arms before clasping them gently around Atla’s wrist.

“Well, that’s easy isn’t it?” He says, still smiling. “You can stay in my room, like the old days.” Modi bends his body over Atla’s, pressing his forehead to his. “We can sleep together.” He says, whispering in Atla’s ear.

Atla shivers in his grasp. His ears are curiously pink. Very slowly, he pushes away from Modi.

He mumbles something Modi can’t hear.

“What was that?”

“…I said I don’t want to.”

The words are like two stones dropping in his stomach. He feels cold.

“What?”

“I don’t want to, Modi.” Atla says again, words harsher this time. “I’m not a little kid anymore. I’m not something for you to- for you to _pity_.” He spits out, face flushed.

Modi wonders how this has all gone so wrong.

“Atla, I don’t pity you.” he says incredulously. “I just want to-“

“Well I don’t!” Atla explodes, fuming, his face all twisted. “I don’t want to, Modi. So leave it alone.”

Atla slams the door in his face before he can put in another word.

-

Modi is an horrible mood for the rest of the week. He rarely sees Atla, and when he does, Atla barely speaks to him. Apparently, he’s too busy with _Kieran_ to care about anything else.

It drives him crazy thinking about all the things they could be doing right now, alone, in Kieran’s rooms. Modi knows Atla won’t start anything, but Kieran might. The way he grabbed Atla’s wrist that day was so grossly possessive it made Modi sick afterwards. Who knows the kinds of things Kieran is trying to pressure Atla into doing.

It makes him boil with anger, the thought of Kieran touching Atla in any way, and makes him snap at everyone who tries to talk to him.

“What crawled up your ass and died?” Matias asks him one day spitefully when Modi tells them he doesn’t want to go on another Jotunheim raid.

“Your fat cunt whore of a mother,” Modi spits back, and Vel has to restrain Matias from punching him.

A couple days later Kalissa and her party make a fire in the woods so of course, Modi has to go. Because he goes wherever his future fiancée goes.

Kalissa picks him up from his rooms, wearing something loose and glittery and blue, something far less formal than she usually wears. She’s very pretty, but Modi has seen so many hundreds varieties of pretty that he’s hardly impressed.

“You’re gonna love it.” Kalissa says deviously. “One of my cousins brought Disir dust.”

This, however, is impressive. “Disir dust?”

Disir are small folk that live in flowers and other plants, collecting ultraviolet dust not visible to the Aesir eye that can make wishes come true. When mixed with some other chemical properties, the dust can be used as a drug.

Kalissa’s eyes burn brightly in the dark. “Disir dust.” She confirms with a cheeky smile.

The party is on the edge of Thrudheim, right where the Blackwood begins. Modi can see the fire burning from miles away. It’s the first thing he sees.

Modi has to bite down on a mean laugh when he gets there. All of Kalissa’s cousins and friends are out of it, acting stupid high on disir. It’s funny until he catches sight of Atla practically in Kieran’s lap, his eyes blown as big as planets, a high, giggly laugh coming out of him like bells.

“_What the **fuck**_?” Modi curses, his eyes burning into Kieran’s. “You let my baby brother sniff this shit?”

Kieran, of course, is stone cold sober. He laughs.

“Atla isn’t a baby, Modi.” He shrugs. “If he wanted to try it, it wasn’t my place to say no.”

Kieran runs a hand through Atla’s hair gently, Atla practically purring at his touch. He looks at Atla in a way Modi doesn’t like.

“More,” Atla whines, holding tight to Kieran’s hand, his eyes a bright green in the firelight. “I want more.”

Kieran, like the idiot he is, makes a stupid, mesmerized face like he couldn’t say no even if he wanted to and starts to pass the pouch to Atla again. Modi grabs it before he can.

“You really are stupid.” Modi snarls. “One, my brother is underage,” Modi says, glaring, “and two, disir dust is only sold by witches, therefore in Asgard it’s an illegal substance. Do you know how much trouble we could get into for this?”

Kieran seems to find this funny, because he starts to laugh again.

“Are you serious right now? Are you really lecturing me after you came all the way out here to try it?”

“Do I look like I’m fucking joking?”

Kieran gives a disgusted shake of his head. “How typical. How so _Aesir_ of you. Just like your father. Witches are only useful when they serve you, but when they don’t, they’re better off dead and hanged.”

Something ugly crawls its way down Modi’s spine. He takes a step closer to Kieran.

“What did you say?”

“Kieran.” Kalissa says sharply, voice full of warning, but Kieran doesn’t listen.

“I said just. Like. Your. _Father_. What, don’t tell me you don’t know? Maybe it’s not common knowledge in Asgard but it is in Vanaheim. The only reason King Thor won the wars against Svartalfheim, the only reason he ascended the _throne_, was because he had a war witch by his side.”

Deadly silence in the circle. The air feels almost electric. War witches are a rights abuse formally not condoned by any of the nine realms but have been secretly used many times in the past. Girls showing an aptitude in seidr are sold by their families, sometimes even abducted, and then trained by thugs in the worst conditions, with the darkest and most of unnatural of magic. If they survive their training, they’re sold to the highest bidder, usually people of high status with political ambitions. Of course, since the whole thing is illegal and vile, accusing someone of owning a war witch is the worst possible slander.

“Say that again.” Modi says quietly. There is something dangerous thrumming in his blood. “Say that again I dare you –“

“And you know what’s even funnier? They say Conqueror Odin even had a witch of his own. It’s a popular tale in Vanir, in fact. It takes place a long time ago, when Odin the Matchless burned through Vanaheim, raping and pillaging, and he came across the Church of Five Stars. He took our High priestess, Frigga Fivestar and he locked her in a tower. He _raped_ her.” Kieran smiles grimly in the light. “And then she had your father.”

The anger leaves Modi’s body, replaced by cold shock.

“You-“ he stops. “You’re lying. No one knows who my father’s mother is. Not even my father.”

Kieran stares at him, hard. “You think your father doesn’t know? Or is it just that he doesn’t tell you? Doesn’t want anyone to know the extent to which Asgard history is filled with _witches_. The same witches they hate. The same witches they oppress and persecute and _murder_-“

“Persecution?” Modi laughs. “My father cares little for the persecution of witches. That was Odin’s time. The laws have become less strict since then.”

“But there are still laws, are there not?” Kieran challenges, something ugly in his eyes. “We can’t even fucking snort disir because of your prissy laws.”

“If my father keeps some laws,” Modi grits out through his teeth, “it is only because the people would riot otherwise. My father could care less if a witch turned out to be his wet nurse. He does not pray to the gods every night for their demise, as surely Odin did.” _How could he, when Loki is his everything?_ “And don’t talk to me of hypocrisy, Genjor. You scream at me about Asgard’s maltreatment of witches, but what about Vanir’s?”

“Vanir’s?” Kieran looks incredulous. He laughs. “What maltreatment-“

“You love to mention the Church of Five Stars, but what about the Church of Nine Dead Men?”

Kieran pales visibly in the shadow of the fire.

The Church of Nine Dead Men is the biggest supplier of war witches in all nine realms. It’s located somewhere in Vanaheim, but it’s always moving to prevent being shut down by authorities.

“That is – that – such an institution is not condoned by the Vanir monarchy-“

It is Modi’s turn to laugh. “But it still exists, doesn’t it? And it kills girls by the thousands. Enslaves even more.” Modi walks closer to Kieran, Kieran stiffening up for a fight, but Modi simply steals an unconscious Atla from his arms.

“Don’t throw stones at glass houses, Genjor. They’re so very easy to break.”

-

“Modi?” Atla’s eyes blink open, still blown wide by disir.

“Shhh.” Modi hushes, Atla in his arms bridal style as they move through Thrudheim. “I’m taking you to my rooms. As I should’ve done a long time ago.”

Atla wraps his arms around Modi’s neck tight.

“I missed you, Modi.” He cries. “I missed you so much.”

Modi tries hard not to roll his eyes. “You missed me? You’ve hardly visited me these last few days.”

“No, Modi,” Atla whines. “You don’t get it. I missed you for three years.”

Modi’s eyebrows wrinkle. “Three years?” He laughs. “Modi, we’ve never been separated for three years.”

“Yes we have.” Atla whispers, still high on disir. “When I was thirteen, and you were sixteen. You never had time for me. You said you were busy and then you fucked girls behind my back.”

Modi feels himself flinch. There’s something very wrong to him about Atla using that word. It feels dirty.

“Don’t use that word, Atla.” Modi says as he opens the door to his rooms and lays Atla on his bed.

“Why? It’s the truth, isn’t it? You fucked her.” Modi flinches again. “I saw it. Maja Hendersen. I saw the way you pushed up her skirts. I saw how she moaned like a bitch in heat, that fucking whore-“

“Atla.” Modi says sharply.

“-I saw the way your cock hammered into her, your body as you took her from behind-“

Modi slams his hand over Atla’s mouth.

“Atla,” he says sharply, his voice hoarse, “stop.”

Modi’s heart is pounding too fast. He never knew Atla saw that. He feels hot, disconcerted; he feels his blood going somewhere else when Atla says those dirty, dirty words with his sweet and innocent mouth.

Atla starts to cry and Modi quickly drops his hand. He cups his face instead, trying to take away the tears with his thumb.

“Atla.” Modi says incredulous, scared. “Baby, what’s wrong?”

“I love you, Modi.” Atla cries.

Modi stares in confusion. “I know, love. I know you love me. I love you too.”

Atla cries even harder. “Modi, you don’t get it! I love you.”

Modi feels stupidly useless. “Baby, I _know_. I know you love me.”

But Atla only cries again, and keeps saying it over and over again, and Modi can only say he knows.

They fall asleep like that, Atla wrapped in Modi’s arms, tearstains on his cheeks, _I love you_s on his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's going to be a sequel to this that is purely loki x thor. as you can see, im doing some world building in this work for the sequel. or technically prequel? since its gonna be the backstory of how loki and thor met and became entangled.


	23. Like Mother, Like...

The next day Modi and Kalissa lay under a cherry blossom tree, Modi with his back to it, and Kalissa’s head in his lap.

It’s a lazy, warm spring day filled with the buzz of cicadas but otherwise silent. Kalissa and Modi don’t say a word to each other. He runs his fingers through her hair absent mindedly while thinking about Atla.

When Modi had woken this morning, he was already gone. Modi didn’t like the unease that filled him at the sight. There were too many things festering between them. The way Atla had cried last night scared him. It sounded like an animal close to dying, like the animals caught in Modi’s traps in the Blackwood. He wanted desperately for everything to be alright between them again. He wanted to hold Atla close to his chest and not feel hesitance at the action.

Most of all, he wanted the Vanir to be gone already.

Abruptly, Kalissa speaks up into the quiet.

“What color are your dress robes going to be for the banquet? I want to match with you.”

Modi barely keeps from sighing. “I’m not sure yet. I went in to get my measurements but they have yet to tailor it.”

The banquet is happening in three days. It’s a celebration of Mistress Ase’s birthday. They’ve never celebrated _‘Ase’s’_ birthday before, but it seems Thor wants to have a party before the Vanir leave to impress upon them the wealth of Asgard. To be honest, a birthday party for a mistress has probably never happened before in all the history of Asgard, and a lot of people are unhappy about it, especially mother, but what can they do about it? It’s _Loki_.

Kalissa seems upset at his response. Not wanting her to be prissy the rest of the day, since he has to spend it with her, he tries to compliment her.

“I love your hair.” He murmurs sincerely. “It’s my favorite thing about you.”

Modi can’t see the face Kalissa makes, but it sounds like she’s frowning.

“It’s not really black, you know. I dyed it. My hair is brown like Kieran’s. Black hair is really rare. It’s only common among the people of Jotunheim. I wanted something unique so…” Kalissa trails off, shrugging.

For some reason, a deep sense of disappointment fills Modi.

“Really?”

“Yes, Modi.” Kalissa says, the annoyance in her tone quite clear now. “You know there are other things to like about me. Other bigger, more important things.”

Modi doesn’t even hear her. He talks over her instead.

“I think you should keep it this way.” He says decisively. “For when we’re married. I like it better this way.”

Modi, his mind on other things, doesn’t notice the face Kalissa makes.

-

“They’ve put on a play for us.” Kalissa tells him later when they’re returning from the stables. There’s still hay on the back of her dress from where he fucked her in an empty stall.

Modi hums. He doesn’t need to know who the us is. He already knows: her annoying Vanir party.

“Are you taking your moon drink?” he asks instead.

_Moon drink – to prevent an unwanted pregnancy._

Kalissa’s eyes burn something unholy. “Am I taking my moon drink?” She repeats. “Do you think I’m stupid? Of course I’m taking it.”

Modi barely keeps from rolling his eyes. “Okay. Just asking.”

_No need for the attitude._

“So are we going or not?” Kalissa asks him waspishly.

“Kalissa,” Modi just barely keeps from sighing, “I’m very busy today-“

“Your brother will be there. He’s a part of the play.”

Modi pauses. Kalissa gives him an expectant look.

“Well,” he says smiling, “why didn’t you just say that in the first place?”

-

They’ve set up a flimsy stage in the middle of the palace courtyards, all of the Vanir colorfully and extravagantly dressed.

Modi raises an eyebrow at the scene.

“What kind of play is it?” he asks Kalissa.

Kalissa only shrugs. “I have no idea. My cousin Tanandra begged me to come. Apparently they’ve been planning it for a while.” A wry smile makes it way onto Kalissa’s lips. “I heard your brother is one of the leads.”

Modi feels a sharp sense of pride fill him.

“Of course.” He states simply, as if its obvious. “He’s my brother after all.”

Modi spots Kieran first, tall but as skinny as a reed, towering over the rest of his Vanir counterparts. He’s dressed in robes that some might find fit him handsomely but Modi only sees as ridiculous.

“What’s he supposed to be?”

Kalissa follows his eyes. “A lord of sorts. He’s the other lead.”

_Of course._

Modi’s eyes catch sight of a flash of long black hair, and his eyes follow it to see a girl’s outline, her back to him, dressed in a black-purple dress that almost seems to glitter.

“A wig I suppose?” Modi notes, considering the rarity of the hair color.

“Oh, yes.” Kalissa replies back, a smile in her voice. “Definitely a wig.”

Then the girl turns, and Modi realizes it isn’t a girl at all.

It’s Atla.

The dress is more black than anything, but when the light hits it at a certain angle you can see the purple shine through. It’s what a Midgardian would call Victorian, tight across the waist with a high neckline and a crinoline skirt and several layers of petticoats over it. Atla’s hair is perfectly coifed, a couple ringlets falling in front of his face and kohl lining his bright cat eyes. His lips are stained obscenely red and his face has a flush to it that isn’t entirely natural.

Modi’s heart almost stops in his chest at the sight.

_Beautiful. Heart stopping, heart breakingly, beautiful._

And then Kieran crowds himself into Atla’s space and everything in Modi’s vision turns a searing hot red.

_What was he thinking, dressing like this? Emasculating himself? Is it for Kieran? Does he want Kieran to notice him?_

The very thought has another burst of rage crashing down Modi’s spine and he walks away from Kalissa to grab Atla roughly by the wrist, pulling him away from Kieran.

Atla smiles at him at first before realizing what he’s doing and the confusion fills his face.

Kieran is besides himself. “What the hell, Modi-“ He snaps, but Modi is quick to cut him off.

“_Shut the fuck up_.” He snarls. “This isn’t any of your business.”

Modi pulls Atla backstage, no eyes or ears to hear their conversation.

“What the hell is this?” He snaps, gesturing at Atla’s outfit.

Atla frowns. “What? My dress-?”

“Yes.” Modi bites, and then- “No. Not just the dress. Everything.”

“Everything?” Atla stares at him in confusion.

Modi gestures helplessly at Atla’s face. “Yes. Everything. You’re painted like a –“

Modi cuts himself off abruptly.

_What was I just about to say?_

But Atla looks like he knows, even if Modi doesn’t. His sea-green eyes harden, two peridot stones.

“Like a whore, you mean? Like my mother?”

_Nine hells_.

“No. _No_. That’s not what I meant, Atla.”

“Okay. Then what did you mean?” Atla’s eyes are relentless, waiting on an answer.

“You’re dressed like a _girl_, Atla!” Modi finally explodes. “What do you what me to say? That I like it? That you look – that you look pretty?” Modi spits out scathingly. “It’s _gross_.”

_(but that’s not what you really mean, is it?)_

Modi’s heart is hammering hard in his chest. He doesn’t know, really, how he feels. He just knows he doesn’t want Atla to be dressed that way. Especially if it’s for Kieran.

But when Atla flinches at his words, instead of getting angry like Modi expects, and his eyes fill with hurt, Modi knows he’s made a big mistake.

“You think it’s gross?” Atla repeats hollowly. “You think I’m ugly?”

Modi quickly backtracks. He feels himself soften. He grabs at Atla’s wrists gently.

“I didn’t- I didn’t say you were ugly. Obviously you’re not.” Modi laughs nervously. _What a completely backwards way of calling someone pretty_. “I just mean – well – you’re not a girl, Atla.”

“Right.” Atla nods his head slowly, and Modi feels relief fill him, until- “I’m not a girl. You can’t fuck me like you would a girl.”

Modi’s hands drop from Atla’s wrists in surprise. “What?” He asks, throat dry. “Atla. That’s not what I-“

“That’s not what you meant?” Atla asks coldly. “I have no idea what your trying to say, Modi. You’ve been talking circles around me. Just tell me what you really want to say.”

Atla stares at him as if he were a stranger. Worse than a stranger, he looks at Modi as if he were an insect under his shoe. Everything about Atla’s body language is closed off.

It turns everything that was soft in Modi molten and angry. He wants to act like Modi isn’t his best friend? Isn’t his brother? He wants to act like Modi hasn’t been the one to care about him the most all these years? More than Kieran or the rest of his new, spangly friends?

_He wants to drop Modi just like that?_

“Fine.” Modi snaps, feeling something ugly twist and rage inside him. “You want me to be honest? It’s embarrassing. You’re not a girl, Atla. You look stupid dressed like this. You’re embarrassing _me_. And for what?” Modi laughs. “To impress Kieran?” He asks acidly. “Did he ask you to do this?”

It looks like this is the last thing Atla expected him to say.

“Kieran?” Atla asks incredulously. “You think I did this for _Kieran?_”

“Why else would you do this? Why else would you dress like a girl, when you’re not even-“

“Stop.” Atla says sharply. “Just stop. You said I’m gross? That I embarrass you? That I’m not a girl? When did I ever say that I was a boy?”

Modi opens his mouth, then, registering Atla’s words, closes it. A strange buzzing noise fills his head.

_What? Isn’t it obvious?_

“But-“ Modi stutters out “You don’t have – you’re not-“

“You’re right. I’m not a girl, either.” Atla finishes for him.

Modi stares at him in silence for a long moment before he speaks again. Anger is slowly blooming inside his blood again.

“Then what the hell-“

“I have a cunt, Modi.” Atla whispers out furiously, his face a burning red.

Whatever Modi was about to say dies in his throat. A cunt? _A cunt?_

Modi thinks about it. He considers it. His mind is strangely buzzing again, something not clicking, uncomprehending, but he tries to understand it. Every memory he has of Atla flashes lightning fast in his head. His small hands. The way he could never pick up a sword. His delicate face. His pouty lips. The way when Modi held him at night, pressed against him, his hips felt wider than a boy’s should be.

_Birthing hips._

“How did you think my mother had me?” Atla asks scathingly. “I have…both parts, just like mama. I’m not completely a girl but…I’m not completely a boy either.”

Modi thinks about the way Kieran looks at Atla. He thinks about how Atla has slept in his rooms every night since the Vanir party arrived. He thinks about the way Atla is dressed right now, so beautiful it makes Modi’s heart ache. And suddenly he understands.

Modi laughs. He laughs something big and loud and a little bit unhinged. It’s a mean laugh. It’s an ugly laugh. It’s a laugh to hide the way he feels like he’s falling apart.

“I take it back.” He says in between laughter. “You _are_ a whore. You’re fucking him, aren’t you? That’s why you’re dressed like this. You like that faggy Vanir boy, do you? Spread your legs wide open when he asks, I bet, pant like a bitch in heat-“

Atla slaps him hard across the face. Harder than a hand as soft as his should allow. Modi tastes blood in his mouth. He looks at Atla is surprise, and then anger.

Modi grabs Atla roughly by the wrist.

“Come on.” He bites out roughly. “Were going back to the palace.”

“No.” Atla says sharply, struggling against his grip.

“If you think I’m going to let you debase yourself in front of everyone you’re crazy, Atla. We’re going back and were going back _now_.”

“NO!” Atla screams this time and it feels like all the air has gone out of Modi’s lungs. He feels like he’s underwater. He feels like there’s no oxygen left in the air. Something twists tighter in his chest and he falls to one knee in front of Atla. It isn’t until he lets go of him that the air goes back into his lungs.

Atla looks down at him, tears in his eyes, but his gaze cold and unmoved.

“You called me dangerous once.” Atla says, as Modi stares at him in shock. “You were right. I don’t ever want to talk to you again. Stay away from me.”

And then he walks away from Modi, everything about him regal and stately, and yes-

Even dangerous.


	24. Lady Ase

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> double update???! isnt it ur lucky day :)

There is something, about someone getting everything, who had nothing, that Iver finds to be very inspiring.

Maybe that’s why he’s so obsessed with Lady Ase.

In the training yards, Ase is always a topic of conversation. Especially with the older boys and men. What else is there to talk about? The knights talk about the girls they’ve lain with, and who has the biggest tits, and who has the tightest cunt, and they laugh and elbow each other and it’s all very objectifying and gross, so Iver only listens when they talk about Ase.

There are a lot of rumors concerning where she came from. Most of the knights agree she came from a brothel.

“Probably Breckenbridge.” Says Sir Finnigan. “There’s a brothel there called Three Queens, it’s the most famous in all of Asgard.”

“She was the best dancer there, I imagine.” Says another. “King Thor probably couldn’t keep his eyes off of her. And then when he finally fucked her, she made sure she got pregnant so he couldn’t get away.”

Everyone laughs at that. Some frown and spit out ‘_conniving bitch_.’ The older boys will shake their heads as if heavy with knowledge and lay their hands down on the shoulders of the younger ones, telling them to never trust a woman, and to always make sure she takes her moon drink.

Iver always shakes their hands off. When he hears the stories they tell, Iver doesn’t think whore, or conniving bitch, or snake. He thinks

_How much work it must’ve taken her, to get to where she is now_.

_How strong she must be_.

The knights don’t talk about Ase when Modi is around because the last time someone did, Modi almost cut their tongue off.

They also don’t talk about Ase in front of head knight Ulf.

Ulf Mikelson is young for a head knight, at only 24, but his title is well deserved. He’s serious and strong and never partakes in the knight’s gossip. If he doesn’t talk about Ase, it’s only because he thinks it’s a betrayal to Queen Sif. The truth is that Ulf Mikelson hates Lady Ase more than any other knight, and holds no respect for her title as a mistress. If anything, it disgusts him.

“For a woman to get her position from laying on her back – where is the strength from that?”

Though Iver’s always admired Ulf, his stance on Ase turns it to reproach.

_You’re from a royal family. You were trained from birth to receive the best education and the best swordsmanship. You’ve never wanted for anything. And yet you disparage Lady Ase, who had none of the same access as you, for doing what she had to do to survive? For doing more than surviving, for surpassing you, and holding one of the most powerful titles in the realm as Royal Mistress?_

_Curse you to the nine hells, Ulf._

The days wear on, however, and so do the rumors, and Ulf Mikelson’s hatred, until the day Lady Ase goes into the ring with him.

-

Lady Ase doesn’t go into the training yards often. And when she does, Ulf Mikelson always makes sure he isn’t there.

“Me and that whore in the same room?” Ulf Mikelson scoffs. “I’d slit my own throat before I’d let that happen.”

It’s a sign of great disrespect for the head knight not to acknowledge Ase as her title is higher than his. It sends malicious rumors flying everywhere, about how Ase is shunned by the court, and holds little power in regards to her citizens. Thor won’t even do anything about it, which makes it all the more worse.

It’s probably why she comes that day unannounced.

Iver sees her first. Sometimes, it feels like he always sees her first.

She’s dressed in her typical bohemian manner, a simple dress and her hair wild and tangled behind her. Still, she is such a sight for sore eyes that Iver can’t help but feel his heart skip a beat when he sees her.

Ulf Mikelson is the last to notice her, the whispers reaching him late.

The change in him is evident, his back stiffening, his face hostile when he looks at her.

But Ase only gives him an easy smile.

“Sir Ulf.” She says pleasantly, and her voice is like a song.

“Ase.” Ulf spits out, and there is no lady in front of it, and no bow.

Everyone in the training yards is silent, the tension so thick you could cut it with a knife.

Lady Ase raises an eyebrow. “I have not seen you in so long, and this is how you greet me, Ulf? I could swear you were avoiding me by the way you act. It’s spread quite a malicious rumor amongst the court.”

“I think it is not secret that I hold no regard for you, Miss Ase_.” _Ulf says calmly_. Miss, as if she were a girl off the street_. “In fact, I find your presence here in Thrudheim entirely inappropriate at best, and repulsive at worst.”

Iver’s hand clenches around his sword.

_How dare he, how _DARE -

Lady Ase lays a hand on her chest. She flutters her eyelashes, faux-hurt in her eyes.

“How you wound me, Ulf. You think me a common whore, do you not?” Lady Ase turns her eyes to the rest of the training yard. “Do you all not?”

Ase walks around Ulf, her hand trailing his shoulders, circling him like prey.

“A dirty whore, and her dirty tricks, who stole a king from his righteous queen. What things I must have done with my mouth, on my hands and knees. These are the things you talk about, are they not? In the training yards, when I’m not here. You probably imagine me on my back. You probably seethe at the fact that a dirty girl like me holds more rank than you.” Ase laughs again, and this time the sound is like knives.

The knights in the yard shift guiltily at her words. Ulf’s face is a bright and burning red.

Ase takes her hand away. She smiles at Ulf, something like a trap.

“I don’t care about what you think of me, Ulf, or what you imagine when your asleep at night with only your right hand for comfort. But the fact of the matter is that your words hurt me. They hurt my reputation.” Loki smiles grimly. “And I can’t have that. Thor had some choice words for you, you know. He wanted to take away your title. He wanted to cut off your hands so you could never wield a sword again.”

Ulf stares at Lady Ase, horror in his eyes.

“But then I told him, how will anyone ever take me seriously?” Ase pouts. “If anything, it will only make you hate me more. So instead, I propose a game. A righteous game, one with no dirty tricks, and a clear winner. A game of honor. A game not meant for whores, but virtuous knights like yourself.”

Ulf is silent for a long time. The yard holds its breath. And then he speaks.

“What kind of game?”

-

The game is simple.

Ase and Ulf will battle in the ring for honor. If Ase wins, Ulf will have to clear her name. He will also have to address her with the respect her title commands.

If Ulf wins, he needs not do any such thing. Ase will also be banned from the training yards ever after.

Ulf laughs at Ase’s proposal. So does the rest of the training yard. Ase is a willowy thing, with slender arms and clothes not fit for battle. It is more likely she will trip over her skirts than best Ulf. Even Iver has no faith in her winning.

“You can lift a sword?” Ulf smiles condescendingly, his eyes doubtful.

“I have throwing knives.”

Ulf is still not impressed. “I will cut you in half before you can even reach one of them.”

“Then you will win. Isn’t that what you want? Isn’t this so easy? What do you have to lose?”

Iver has no idea what Ase is playing at. By the look on Ulf’s face, he has no idea either. But Ulf is no fool to pass up an easy win.

“I won’t cut you down, Ase. But if my sword touches you, I win.”

“Agreed.” Ase says simply, before smiling with all her teeth.

-

Lady Ase cuts her dress slightly above her knees with a throwing knife. The men in the training yard stare. Saliva pools in Iver’s mouth and he has to swallow. Ulf looks away from her.

“Why are you-?”

“You don’t expect me to trip over my skirts do you?”

Ulf clears his throat. “It is inappropriate to show your legs in a yard full of men.”

Ase only smiles sweetly. “Oh I assure you, I’ve shown a yard full of men much more than just my legs.”

Ulf shakes his head in disgust. “This is why everyone calls you-“

“Whore?” Ase beats him to it. “Best me and you can call me it all you want, straight to my face.”

Ulf strikes first. It’s obvious he doesn’t expect much of a fight because he goes much slower and sloppily than he would if coming at a knight from the yard. Ase sidesteps him easily, and Ulf gets a cut on the cheek for his lazy efforts.

“Oh, silly boy.” Ase laughs. “You’ll have to try harder than that.”

Ulf seems almost shocked to find blood on his hand when he presses it to his cheek. His gaze hardens considerably and so does his resolve.

But it seems the easy win Ulf was expecting is not so easy at all. Ulf, usually a sight to behold in the yard, swift with his strikes and powerful, looks lumbering and clumsy next to Ase who sidesteps every one of his swings easily.

It looks almost like dancing, and sometimes it is, with Ase twirling around extravagantly just to sidestep a strike, which only serves to make Ulf even more upset because it’s obvious Ase is treating this - and him - as a game.

Ase twirls and twirls around him, laughing and dodging every blow, everything about her graceful and quick compared to the large and clumsy bulk that is Ulf, red-faced and angry behind her. She hasn’t even gone on the offense once.

_How good must she be, to make Ulf look so fucking bad?_

Ulf, on the other hand, gets more and more upset the more Ase teases him, and becomes even more clumsy as a result, and more sloppy, and this seems to be the indicator for Lady Ase to finish it.

Ulf sends another powerful, but sloppy swing towards her, at this point no longer even worried for her safety, and Ase uses his momentum to wrap herself behind him, her knife coming up to press against his neck.

“I win,” she whispers into his ear, before letting go.

And then Ulf Mikelson does something unthinkable. Ulf Mikelson, all endless cool and calm, turns in a flying rage to face Ase, a snarl on his lips as he whips his hand out and strikes her hard and fast across the face.

It feels like everyone stops breathing. Iver feels anger strike him like lightning, ready to hop over the training wall and give Ulf hell no matter what the cost, but Bjorn stops him.

“Are you out of your **_mind?_**” Bjorn whispers, holding him tightly across the chest.

Ulf realizes too late what he has done. The blood drains out of his face when Ase turns to face him, her gaze endlessly blank. She walks towards him, and Ulf takes a step back, but before he can take another Ase grabs him by the neck and

Kisses him.

Iver is so shocked he goes limp in Bjorn’s grasp. Ulf doesn’t even do anything, obviously having expected anything but that, and Ase takes advantage of his surprise to slip her tongue in, pressing close to him even as she kisses him deeper. And finally, _finally_, Ulf is responding, but instead of pushing her away like Iver expects, he wraps his thick arms tight across her waist, something hungry and needy in his gaze as he kisses her back, bent over her desperately, a dreamy look on his face as he holds her jealously.

And then Ulf is screaming as Ase bites down on his tongue, hard, shoving her away from him, blood dripping out of his mouth.

“How does it feel,” Ase asks, blood on her teeth, a manic smile on her face, “to have been bested by a whore? How does it feel to have kissed me, knowing where my mouth has been?”

Ulf is still screaming, barely listening to anything Ase is saying, now on his hands and knees on the dirt, and no one knows what he’s doing there until Iver realizes Ulf is searching for his _tongue_.

_She bit his tongue off_, Iver thinks in a daze_. She bit it off._

Ase turns to face them, her eyes twin peridot stones.

“See what happens to the tongue that slanders my name!” She yells, everything about her wild. “Do you see?! Be careful you do not become like your poor head knight. _Be careful.”_

Ase walks out of the ring, her head held high, and everyone bows except Iver. He is frozen, staring at the sight of her, like some warrior queen.

“What are you looking at, boy?” She sneers at him, before passing him without another thought, and Iver can only think-

_She should’ve kissed me. Even if I’d have lost my tongue – she should’ve kissed me_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am currently at 71,000 words! we are close to the end people :)  
GOD but is it killing me  
your support means the WORLD to me


	25. Curia Regis Loki

Iver’s obsession with Lady Ase can only be matched by his obsession with Curia Regis Loki.

When Atla comes back from the woods safe and sound Iver thanks all his lucky stars. Modi has made it back safe as well, and Iver is ready for things to go back to normal.

Here’s the thing about Modi. He doesn’t hold grudges. How can someone, who doesn’t care about anything, hold grudges? The way they parted might have been nasty, but Iver and Modi have had nastier bouts in the past.

When Modi comes back to sword practice Iver wiggles his eyebrows at him and tells him he’s sorry his little shit stain of a brother didn’t die in those woods. He offers his condolences on the matter.

Modi just looks at him for a long time, silent. Iver isn’t put off by it because he’s used to such a Modi, and really, since when has Modi had a normal sense of humor?

The essential things Iver knows about Modi Iver could put in a small box. There’s not a lot to know. Modi is a cold person. He rarely smiles, but he also rarely gets upset. If you make a joke and he doesn’t laugh, don’t worry – he probably just doesn’t get it. The only person Modi truly hates is his bastard of a brother.

But, it turns out, this last essential fact has changed since Modi’s time in the Blackwood. And Iver finds it out the hard way.

After practice, Modi calls him over.

“Let’s meet at our old spot.” He says quietly, and Iver grins.

“Aye, Aye, captain.”

Modi goes first, and Iver follows, but when he goes into the crumbling water house he doesn’t see him.

Iver turns around, about to leave, and a fist meets his face.

Stars light behind his eyes and Iver hears an audible crunching sound ring in his ears.

_Nine hells. This bastard broke my nose._

“What the hell, Modi!” Iver splutters, his hand up to try and stop the blood.

“Was that joke supposed to be funny? Was I supposed to laugh?”

Iver stares up at him, furious. “Are you out of your _mind_-“

Modi grabs the front of Iver’s shirt, bunches the fabric in between a fist, and sneers.

“No, Iver. Are you out of _your _mind? Did you think I would come back, and everything would go back to the way it was? Did you think I would forget about what you did? You left Atla on the edge of the Blackwood. _To die.”_

“It was just a little joke, Modi,” Iver says nervously, trying to play his part of loyal dog perfectly, though it kills him. “Come on, you hate him just as much as me, maybe more-“

“That’s where you’re wrong, Iver.” Modi says sharply. He lets go of Iver’s shirt and lets him flop to the ground. “This was a warning. Don’t ever talk to me, or Atla, again.”

Iver can only lie on the ground as Modi walks away, everything about him shining and gleaming, while Iver is a mess on the dirt, all blood and grit.

The image sparks a tight coil of anger deep in his belly.

A couple hours later Bjorn finds him, his stupid sheep face all mopey and sad.

“He said he never wants to talk to us again. What am I supposed to tell my father?”

And Iver spits out

“So what? We don’t need him. We never needed him.”

And Iver hopes, in his heart, that what he’s saying is true.

-

For a little while, things are good.

It’s not like Iver is nothing without Modi. Iver has always been smart, and good with a sword, and has always attracted people to him like bees to honey. But even the best qualities don’t mean much without a good title. That was the reason Iver sucked up to Modi for so long.

Still, for a while, it seems like things are fine even without one. Iver has always held considerable influence over the children of the court, even being a lowly baron’s son, and this is something Modi cant take away. He has his own little sycophants now, daughters and sons of marquises and earls that follow him like chickens without a head, always squawking for his attention.

He even has a job as a scribe with the various councils. He goes in and takes notes on their meetings along with a couple of other boys. The other boys taking notes are even lower ranked than Iver, simply commoners looking for coin, but that’s not the only reason Iver does it. Being a scribe for the council lets him listen in to important reports and other such things. Obviously, serious and top secret council meetings are held in private, with no scribes to write down the sensitive information, but there is still a lot to learn from the public ones. Iver has been a scribe for war councils, tax councils, law councils, and many others. The scribes often go in rotation.

Iver learns a lot about economics and politics in these meetings, and even sees the deft in which he may one day have to handle himself when proposing a new act upon the kingdom.

These meetings are also where Iver meets Loki.

Loki is the King’s Curia Regis. He is the King’s closest advisor, and his rank is only second to Thor’s. His introduction into Asgardian society caused quite a few waves. For one, King Thor had never had a Curia Regis before Loki. It seemed odd for him to suddenly take one out of the blue, especially one whose background was unknown. But, it quickly became obvious just why Thor had chosen Loki as his Curia Regis.

Loki was Thor’s beloved whore’s brother.

It wasn’t something you could exactly hide. Loki had the same eyes and hair as Lady Ase. Burning peridot eyes matched with a wave of black curls. Even their smiles, cat-like and sly, were similar.

It was no secret to anyone that Thor absolutely adored his whore. Even more than his lawful wife and children. His propensity to impropriety only proved this. Whores didn’t have whole wings dedicated to them. Whores didn’t stand next to their husband on their throne. Neither did they tower over Kings, and give orders to the people like what they said was law.

Public opinion was not at it’s best when Thor’s mistress was revealed to the people. They said nasty things about both her and the King. Spread rumors. Every one in Asgard knew that Thor was beholden to his whore. So, if Lady Ase asked Thor to make her brother Curia Regis, how could he ever refuse?

There was a lot of anger at Loki for his succession to a position that many deemed he didn’t deserve. When Curia Regis Loki sat in on a council meeting, there was always bound to be a show, because none of Thor’s council (his war council, his executive council, his law council) – _none of them_ liked Loki.

Whenever Loki spontaneously decided to sit in on a meeting, Iver always internally groaned, because it meant he would be working his wrist especially hard that day with all the arguing that would most definitely occur.

The first time Iver saw Loki sit in on a council he didn’t expect anything. In fact, he felt disgust. Loki was no different than Modi, in that he got his power from someone else, which in this case was Lady Ase. Loki was simply a man riding on his sister’s coat tails.

He didn’t expect the man to have anything significant to contribute.

And for a while it was so. The meeting started and Loki was quiet as the rest of the nobles spoke, arguing about a complaint filed by a farm hand under the employ of Ran Sjofn, a baron who bought his title with his large cattle business. His meat supplied most of their capital city.

The farm hand filing the complaint was named Tuller Onunson. He claimed the pay Sjofn gave his workers was not enough to live on, especially with the work they did. Iver had seen enough of these council meetings to know that cases like these were never won by small men like Tuller Onunson.

Sjofn and Onunson both sat in on the meeting, Sjofn on one side and Onunson on the other. Ran was a large man with a protruding gut and fat chubby fingers. He glared at Tuller from across the room, something smug and mean in his face as Tuller, reed-like and skinny, nervously twiddled his fingers.

Maester Hilbringen, the head of the council, finally spoke up.

“I think that’s enough,” he says decidedly to his audience. “Ran Sjofn pays his farm hands 3 krone an hour. That is far more generous than most. The average man in Asgard is paid 50 betchels, not even 1 krone. Tuller Onunson has also had the unfortunate accident of having been injured on the Sjofn estate, of which Sjofn is not to blame, but points to Onunson having filed this complaint for other prejudiced and extraneous reasons. Frankly put, it’s obvious that Onunson is a disgruntled employee trying to get revenge on his more than generous, and naïve, employer.”

Iver flexes his wrist as he watches the crestfallen look fall over Tuller’s face.

_What were you expecting?_ Iver thinks acidly. _That they would side with the man with no rank, title, or money to speak of? This is the world. You are either the hard worker who gets exploited, or the bad man who exploits. And I know who I’m going to be._

The council is already stretching and shuffling papers, not expecting any push against their decision, when suddenly a laugh sounds through the room.

It is loud and sharp and clearer than any bell. It fills every crevice of the room.

“Is this how you mitigate cases, Dago? Is this how you decide _justice_?”

Curia Regis Loki is sitting lazily in his chair, leg spread, his green eyes endlessly amused and impertinent.

Dago Hilbringen stiffens at the mention of his first name, and the lack of title on top of it.

“Yes, _Loki._” The Maester spits back, his eye twitching. “This is how the council decides justice. I have no idea why you are complaining now when you had little to say the entire time we discussed the issue.”

Loki sits up on his chair, stretching like a cat, before flashing the Maester with a grin.

“Oh, I was only waiting for the blubbering to finish. Poor, stupid Ran Sjofn – who only wishes the best for his employees, pays them more than most men in Asgard – now being taken advantage by a greedy worker with a hidden agenda. That’s the image you’re trying to paint, correct?”

One of the council members moves to leave the room and the smile falls right off Loki’s face.

_“Sit down.”_ He snarls, words loud and harsh in the crowded room. The council member jumps, his face paling. There is nothing nice or amicable in Loki’s face now. It’s as hard as stone. “Did I dismiss you yet? Don’t you see I’m still talking? This isn’t over, not by a long shot. So sit. _Down._”

The council member sits down while the rest stare at Loki in shock, frozen in the shuffling and packing up of their papers.

“Are you all deaf?” Loki asks, raising an eyebrow. “I said **sit down**. That means you too Sjofn. We aren’t done here. No,” Loki says, something unmistakably predatory in his smile, all teeth on display. “We’re just getting started.”

-

There is a large paper on display in the middle of the room and Loki stands up to face it with a feather ink pen. He clears the old sheet to show a snow white new one. He then smiles and turns to face Ran Sjofn.

“Mr. Sjofn. You’re an expert on financial statements.” It’s not a question. “You run a two million krone valued cattle business. I know you’re good at numbers and you’ve shared a lot of opinions about how Asgard should budget it’s resources, and how its families should budget their resources as well.”

“Yes.” Sjofn replies smugly, obviously unafraid of Loki. “I have.”

Loki only smiles. “As such, I’d like to ask for your help on one problem.” Loki brings the pen to the paper. “You pay Tuller 3 krone an hour, correct?”

“Yes, that is correct.”

“Tuller works fifty hours a week, for 52 weeks. His yearly salary is 7800 krone a year.”

“Yes.” Sjofn replies, face even smugger, if that’s possible. “Quite generous, might I add.”

Loki seems unperturbed. The rest of the council looks listless and bored already. Iver has no idea what Loki is trying to do. There is no denying the salary is generous by most standards. Bringing it up can only hurt Loki’s case.

Loki only hmms. “Tuller claims one dependent, his six year old daughter Laura, and after taxes, gets paid 5400 krone. Therefore, monthly, Tuller is getting paid 400 krone.”

There’s a bit of a shift in the room. Maester Hilbringen seems uncomfortable in his seat. 7800 sounds like a lot, but when you break it down to monthly payments, and after taxes, it isn’t really.

“Tuller lives in the Ketel district, which is one of the poorest, so he only pays 200 krone for rent every month. Assuming Tuller lives on a low-cost budget when it comes to food, he would pay 150 krone a month, according to the Council of Agriculture.” Loki smiles grimly. “We’re talking rye grain every day, gentlemen. No meat.”

More shuffling and shifting in seats. No one can look Tuller Onunson in the eyes.

“Tuller, as well as these costs, must pay a nursemaid to watch his child as he is a single father and his job with the cattle takes place during regular workday hours. He pays her 200 krone a month.”

Loki does the math on the paper. 400 krone, minus 200, minus 150, minus 200 again, leaves Tuller 50 krone in the red.

“My question for you, Mr. Sjofn, is how should Tuller mange this budget shortfall, while working full time at your domicile?”

Sjofn is no longer smiling. Sjofn is no longer smug.

“I don’t know.” He says stiffly. “I’d have to think about it.”

Loki smiles menacingly. “Would you recommend he take out a loan from you, and run a deficit?”

“I don’t know,” he repeats, jaw twitching furiously. “I’d have to think about it.”

“You don’t know,” Loki repeats, “how to find a way for him to live on less than the minimum that I’ve described?”

Silence, and then-

“I’d have to think about it.”

Iver stares at the scene in rapt attention, amazed. It seems like everybody is. He’s even forgotten to transcribe a few words, so caught up is he in Loki’s argument. He’s made a fool of Sjofn. He’s made a fool of the council members for supporting Sjofn and spinning a tale about him as a helpless victim.

_He shouldn’t be winning. He shouldn’t be…how is he winning? And how is he winning against **Sjofn**?_

Loki smiles sarcastically. “Well, I appreciate your desire to ‘think’ about it, Lord Sjofn, but what I’d like you to do is provide a way for families to make ends meet so that a little girl who’s only six years old living in one of Asgard’s worst districts doesn’t have to go to bed hungry and alone because her father is being worked to the bone by a man whose greed is enough to rival Odin the Matchless.”

Every word Loki speaks is like an avalanche - building and building in speed and size until it is huge enough to topple Ran Sjofn. By the end of his speech Loki is no longer smiling, his face as hard and unforgiving as ice as he stares down at Lord Sjofn. And still he is not done.

“We allowed no money for clothing, Lord Sjofn. We allowed no money for medicinal herbs for when either Laura or Tuller get sick, and we allowed no money,” Loki adds darkly, “for the various accidents that occur on your property.”

Sjofn explodes in anger. “This is absurd, Maester! I will not have this man, who only got his job because his sister is a whore, to slander me like this! We already ruled that the injury was an accident, and I that I had nothing to do with it. We’ve also already confirmed that Mr. Onunson is a swindler with a hidden agenda and unwarranted vendetta against me!”

“Maester _Dago_ has ruled such.” Loki sneers. ”I, on the other hand, have not ruled a thing. And is it my ruling that matters here, Ran.”

Loki turns sharply to face Tuller. “Sir Onunson. If you could come up, please?”

_Sir Onunson_, Iver thinks dazedly. _He called him sir_.

“Lord Sjofn claims what happened in his slaughterhouse to be an accident. What would you call it?”

Tuller is still twiddling his hands nervously, but seems encouraged by Loki’s urging.

“Well, there are all these hooks on the ceiling for the raised meat. I was working that day inside when one of the hooks went undone and fell on top of me. lt left a scar across my back.”

“Can you show us, Sir Onunson?”

Tuller hesitates, and Loki lays a hand on his shoulder, his face more gentle and real than it has been all day.

“You don’t have to if you’re uncomfortable with it.”

But Tuller only shakes his head, and slowly begins to open his dress shirt button by button. When he turns around to show his back, an audible gasp rings through the council room.

There is a deep gash running from Tuller’s right shoulder to his left hip. The skin is serrated and an ugly red, and part of it seems to be infected if the pus is any indicator.

“He did it to himself!” Sjofn yells out, and then realizing the absurdity of his statement, quickly changes his tone. “I mean, he had someone else do it! There was no proof of the fallen hook in my warehouse, and neither was there blood-“

“Because you cleaned it.” Tuller cuts in, shaking, but not from fear. From anger. “You buried the hook and cleaned up the blood before the inspector came so it would seem like I was lying.”

“You have no proof.” Sjofn snarls back, any pretense of hapless victim long since abandoned. “No proof at all you worthless peasant _scum_-“

“Actually,” Loki cuts in sharply, “I do.” There is a file in his hands that wasn’t there before. “I thought you would say that so I brought this in today just in case.”

_He prepared for this trial, _Iver thinks, dazed_. The whole time he was quiet I thought he wasn’t even paying attention but he was. He knew from the minute he walked in this room that he was going to have to defend Tuller. That Maester Hilbringen would side with Sjofn. He came **prepared.**_

“Your warehouse has failed five inspections this year alone, Lord Sjofn. In this file the Chief Inspector says your hooks are the most worrisome, half of them being rusted and close to breaking. Of course, you bribed the chief inspector to pass you anyway but you’ll find bribes mean nothing to a Curia Regis, Lord Sjofn.”

Sjofn turns to face Dago. “Maester Hilbrigen, surely you know this man is lying-“

Loki tosses the file to the Maester.

“It’s all in there.” He says dismissively.

The Maester opens the file warily, he eyebrows furrowing when he reads the text. After a long while, he closes it and gives Sjofn a pained look.

“I’m afraid it is, Lord Sjofn. By this account-“

“No, no.” Sjofn shakes his head. He looks like he’s about to laugh, like he’s on the edge of a breaking point. “You don’t tell me that. You don’t tell me _that._ Do you know who you’re even taking to right now councilman? Do you even _know_-“

“I know who I’m taking to, Ran.” Loki says suddenly. “I know. I’m talking to a man who doesn’t pay his employees enough. I’m talking to a man who bribes officials and runs an overcrowded, underfunded, and dangerous slaughterhouse that has led to the injuries of many of his employees. I’m talking to a man who doesn’t even give his employees enough to live. I’m talking to a man who leaves his employees 50 krone in the red, not counting all the other costs in their lives, including the ones you’ve indirectly imposed on them.”

“_You son of a bitch_.” Sjofn snarls, completely gone now, bright red and foaming at the mouth. “Your sister is a whore and your mother was probably a whore and your sister fucked the king so good with that dirty cunt of hers and THAT’S the only reason you’re allowed to even look at me today, let alone _speak_ to me-“

Iver feels something mean and ugly grow in the pit of his stomach_. How dare he. How dare he talk about Lady Ase that way. How dare this man, ugly in every way – ugly in looks and temper and greed – how dare he slander Lady Ase in such a way. When everything he has is because he’s inherited it, and everything Lady Ase has is because she’s worked herself to the bone to have it._

But Loki is unmoved. Sjofn is spitting obscenities in his face but Loki only moves closer, towers over him, everything about him black and dangerous and threatening.

“A fifty crone shortfall.” He spits, head shaking in disgust. “Lord Sjofn, you know how to spend half a million krone a _year _in salary and you’re telling me you can’t figure out how to make up a 50 krone monthly shortfall? That _this _is budget problem you simply cannot solve?”

Lord Sjofn, for once, is blessedly and stupidly silent. His face is redder than the sun when it sets, a vein in his neck bulging, but there is no way he can answer Loki’s question without sounding like a fool, and he is completely aware of this.

Loki moves back, a sneer on his lips. “That’s what I thought. Dago, Ran Sjofn will pay the amount demanded by Tuller Onunson and then some. But don’t think this is over, Sjofn. Your unwillingness to pay your employee has brought to light graver charges against you and I expect to see you next week on account of your bribery of high officials.” Loki, Curia Regis, waves a hand thoughtlessly, his face infinitesimally cool again. “The council is dismissed.”

And then he walks out before anyone else can put a word in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the case in this chapter was inspired by a case in 2019 against chase bank!


	26. Manco Iver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> manco: a person who lacks a limb or a hand

Iver sees Loki different after that. He even looks forward to the days where Loki will sit in on a council meeting unannounced, even if it means his wrist will be sore from writing non-stop. Sometimes Loki will drop in during the middle of a meeting, and it’s the funniest thing, because it seems like all the council members will stiffen, their backs going straighter, their words more cautious and intelligent. And the tension in the room will build, waiting for Loki to speak, waiting for him to pounce on some poor council members argument and slash it to pieces. Even the air seems tenser, thicker, like a star about to explode.

_Serves them right_, Iver always thinks nastily_. Serves every one of them right. They’ve never known to be afraid of their actions because they’ve always thought themselves untouchable. Let them be afraid of this man from nowhere, who has slinked on his belly in the mud all his life. Let him tear them to pieces with the dirt in his hands._

It seems like, from then on, being a scribe is the funnest it’s ever been. His life is the best it’s ever been. He’s a great swordsman. He has people that follow him around like sheep and do whatever he commands.

And it seems its only Iver’s rotten luck that something terrible happens to him to make him lose it.

-

It happens in the forge.

It’s after sword practice, and Iver is already sweating hard from his training in the ring, but the heat of the forge makes it unbearable. He wipes a hand over his forehead for the ninth time to stop the sweat from getting his eyes. He’s only in here to sharpen his sword but blacksmith Tanner is nowhere to be found.

He really need to sharpen his sword. They have practice again later in the day and his sword is already many grades below most of the boys of the court. Iver glances around quickly to make sure no one is around and then places his sword on the anvil. Usually you’d put your sword in the fire then pound it out on the anvil to shape it the way you want. But Thrudheim has a fancier mechanism. It squeezes the sword between two anvils, with a gear to the side of it to pull or release the mechanism on top to strike it. It’s much faster than only using a mallet.

Glancing around one more time to make sure he’s alone, Iver places his sword between the two anvils. He’s seen Tanner do it before so he’s sure he can do it as well. He turns the gear on the side to drop the anvil onto his sword and it works for a while before it gets stuck.

Nine hells, Iver curses. Tanner is going to think I broke it.

He pulls harder on the gear but it doesn’t budge. He realizes after a while that a part of the chain is caught on the underside of the top anvil.

The top anvil is very close to touching the bottom anvil. If he’s going to pull the chain out, he’s going to have to do it quick. Both of the anvils are still hot from his sword.

Iver takes a deep breath. He reaches his hand in –

-And the gear releases.

Iver hasn’t even pulled away the chain before the top anvil is smashing down on his right hand and he screams.

The sound of his bones crunching is covered by the hot sizzling of his flesh, every synapse and nerve in Iver’s body firing away, translating the action into pain, screaming at him to get his hand out of the two anvils, but he can’t. The weight is too much. His hand has been flattened by the iron ore and he couldn’t pull it out even if he had both working hands.

Iver can’t even think the pain is too much. All he does is scream and it’s barely a conscious thing, more like the screams are being torn out of his throat against his will, and the only thoughts that go through his head are

_FIRE BURN PAIN HOT BROKEN HOT TORN CRUNCH BREAK HOT HOT HOT HOT HOT HOT HOT HOT HOT **HOT-**_

Until finally he passes out and he can’t think anymore.

-

Iver loses his right hand.

Sitting at his bedside, head in his hands, Tanner asks him what he was doing in there.

Iver stares at his stump while he speaks. He hasn’t been able to look away from it ever since he woke up.

“I was…” Iver voice is creaky. He clears his throat. “I was sharpening my sword. You weren’t there so…” Iver trails off. He shrugs.

“How did you get in?”

Iver stares at him. “I just went in.”

“How?”

Iver wonders what the point of these stupid questions are. “The door was open.” He says slowly.

Tanner just stares back at him, incredulous.

“Iver, I locked the door before I left. There was no way you could’ve gotten in.”

-

At first, when Iver loses his hand, it feels like the end of the world.

His sword is awkward and clumsy in his left hand. He’s a laughingstock in the trainyards now. The only one who doesn’t laugh is Modi, but that makes it even worse somehow.

The first time someone tries to make fun of him for his missing hand, it’s Vandil Hdord.

Vandil is one of those people who never liked Iver, but did whatever he said because he was afraid of him. Now though, he obviously thinks its his chance to get back at Iver, and comes up to him with a gaggle of other boys, all smug and leering.

“Manco Iver.” He sneers. “How stupid must you be to lose your hand sharpening your sword-“

Vandil doesn’t get another word out before Iver throws dirt in his eyes and jumps him. He brings his one working fist down on his face and doesn’t stop until he hears something crack. He spits in Vandil’s face when he’s done, blood all over his knuckles from Vandil’s broken nose.

“I may be missing a hand, Vandil,” Iver sneers, “but I only need one to beat your spoiled ass into the ground. So don’t tempt me.”

After that, no one really bothers him, but he’s still a laughing stock in the training yards, and he’s lost his job as a scribe.

He goes begging to Maester Hilbrigen for it back. Begging sets his teeth on edge but he needs the job. He needs the coin, maybe not as bad as those other boys, but he still needs it. And he needs the experience.

“Maester Hilbrigen, please, I can still write with my left-“

“But fast enough to keep up with the council? I’m sorry, but I highly doubt that Iver. Good day.”

Iver barely keeps from cursing at Dago’s retreating back. When he turns around, Loki is there staring at him curiously.

Iver stiffens. He bows his head, but only barely.

“Sir Loki.”

Loki waves a hand in the air thoughtlessly.

“You don’t have to call me that. Nobody calls me that, and I’m sure you don’t want to call me that either. What are you doing here?”

Iver’s eyes unconsciously look to the hall Dago just went down. Loki catches him on this and smiles.

“Begging for your job back? You can forget about that, boy.”

Iver bites down on his tongue to keep from saying anything.

“You don’t think this is some sort of divine punishment for something you did?” Loki adds, watching him carefully.

“Divine punishment?” Iver can’t help but sneer. “I grew up with nothing, and now I have less than nothing. There are worse people than me to punish. What kind of cruel god would punish me?”

“Oh my.” Loki blinks. “What a nasty little boy you are. Stop whining, will you? You still have a hand left.” Loki says, pressing closer to him, before sneering in his face- “So don’t act so disgustingly pathetic.”

He leaves before Iver can put another word in.

-

After that, Iver can barely go anywhere without Loki taunting him.

Whenever Iver follows Dago around, begging for his job back, Loki is there laughing at him. In the training yards where Iver is stuck training with boys younger than him, because he’s back to being a novice again, Loki is there with the rest of them, laughing. Everywhere he goes it seems Iver can’t get the sound of Loki laughing at him out of his head.

The worst happens one day when Iver wins a duel against another novice three years younger than him. Iver can’t even feel happy about it. The fact disgusts him.

Loki, for once, is blessedly silent while the rest laugh, his eyes watching Iver carefully.

Iver is about to take off his armor when Loki walks into the ring.

“What are you doing?” Loki asks. “Keep your armor on. We’re dueling.”

The whole training yard goes silent. Iver feels like he’s frozen in place.

Finally, he works his mouth open. “You don’t-“ He clears his throat. “You don’t have any armor on.”

“I don’t need it.” Loki says carelessly. He raises his sword. “Not against you.”

Snickers fill the yard. Iver’s face burns.

“Fine,” he snaps, and then raises his sword as well.

Loki is stronger than he looks. He’s lean and willowy, and is more built for cutting down council men with his words than cutting down soldiers with a sword, but it seems he’s adept at both.

Iver loses every round against Loki. Each round is embarrassingly short, and in one of them, Iver falls to the ground and doesn’t get back up. Most of the people have left by now bored by Iver’s continuous losing.

“Get up.” Loki snaps.

Iver doesn’t listen to him. He stares at the sky. His ribs ache. He doesn’t want to fight anymore.

“Get. Up.” Loki snarls, but still Iver doesn’t listen to him.

A sword drives itself into the ground beside Iver’s head, only millimeters away from his eye. Iver jumps at the action.

“Are you going to keep embarrassing yourself like this? Are you going to keep playing stupid and lay on the ground like you can’t hear me? Are you going to be this weak forever?”

Loki’s last words are like ice in Iver’s veins.

_Are you going to be this weak forever?_

Is he? Is he going act like this for the rest of his life? Begging Dago for his job back? Practicing and besting novices half his age? Being pathetic and useless for the rest of his life?

_No._ The word is as sharp and heavy as the anvil that fell on top of his hand. _No, I don’t want to be like this forever. I **won’t** be like this forever._

So Iver gets back up, and raises his sword to spar again.

-

After that, Loki doesn’t come back to spar him, but Iver trains harder than ever. He’s the first one to get to the training yards and the last to leave, and at night, he practices his penmanship with his left hand.

He knows he will get his job back, not by begging, but by practicing, and that one day his skill with a sword will be back to the way it was before he lost his hand.

It’s not a question of if but rather when.

And now, when Iver dreams, it’s no longer of only Lady Ase, but Loki as well.


	27. Odin's Law

At 19 years old, Iver has slept with many girls, but dreams of only one woman.

_Ase Laufeyson._

Lady Ase has been the focus of many of his pubescent dreams growing up, most of which ending when Iver would wake up with a wet spot in the front of his trousers.

Iver doesn’t know when his feelings went from admiration to envious, teeth grinding, ravenous desire.

But to be honest, that admiration has probably always been tinged with want ever since that day in the throne room when Ase’s eyes fell upon him, something striking and dangerous, and he couldn’t help but want her eyes on his again no matter what the cost.

The throne room is filled to every corner by the time Iver gets there. He’s dressed smartly for the occasion, and his eyes wander the floor looking for Bjorn but find Modi instead.

Modi is standing, his back against a column, with Princess Kalissa babbling something up at him. Modi swirls a full glass of wine in his hands as she talks and looks like he’d rather be anywhere else than here. He’s dressed, same as Iver, in imperial military uniform but with more medals pinned to his lapel. His blonde hair is slicked back and he has golden buttons running down his chest on a black dress shirt, intricate red brocade on his collar and golden epaulettes on his shoulders. A show of his rank as prince.

Iver turns away from him only to catch sight of the birthday girl herself, sitting at the high table with King Thor by her side. His breath catches in his throat at the sight, and it takes a while for him to breathe again.

You’d think she’d look silly all dressed up in those stuffy crinoline dresses the ladies of the court are bound to wear. A beauty like Ase’s is not meant for tight whale bone corsets and high collars. A beauty like hers is not meant to be bound or caged. But she isn’t dressed in one of those stifling dresses. Instead, Lady Ase is wearing a loose fitting dress that drapes over her like silk, clinging in all the right places. It looks like a dress you’d wear in the desert realms of Muspelheim - so revealing it is. The dress is a glimmering green, as if it were made from the scales of a dragon, and though it trails all the way down to her feet, leaving a train behind her, the dress is backless, with delicate gold chains crossing the back of it, and it reveals all of her delicate back dangerously close to the curve of her hips.

Ase’s eyes, a lighter green than her dress, glitter wickedly in the lights of the throne room, her head throne back as she laughs at something Thor says. It sends a sharp pain shooting down the meat of Iver’s heart, that something like her, so beautiful and so strong, can never be his.

The night is not solely celebratory, however, and high officials come and go to King Thor’s table, discussing this and that, trying to gain Ase’s favor so that she may in turn gain Thor’s, and she dances courteously with almost everyone.

There is a girl pressed close to Iver, mouthing at his neck, but he pushes her off of him at the sight.

_If they can ask for a dance, surely I can too_, Iver thinks decisively.

Iver waits his turn in a line of officials to speak with Thor, and bows when he gets to the front of it.

“Your majesty,” he says respectfully, lowering his eyes as well as his body.

Thor looks at him in surprise. To be fair, Iver is probably the youngest person he’s seen all night in this line.

“Sir Iver,” Thor relies back politely. “What is the reason for your unexpected presence this night? Don’t tell me you as well wish for the passing of Act 1301?” He says smiling good naturedly.

Iver tries to keep his voice from shaking. “No sir, alas, that is not it. I was wondering instead if I could have this dance with Lady Ase?”

Silence. Thor stares at him. Lady Ase, who had previously been playing with the rings on her fingers, stares at him.

This close she is even more unbearingly beautiful that it makes Iver’s hands sweat. Her usually wild curls are half up and half down in some kind of intricate hair style, little gold butterflies and pearls threaded throughout it, shining light everywhere any time she moves her head.

Iver knows he should maintain eye contact with King Thor. He knows, since he made the request, that he should not look away from him. But Iver cannot look away from the emerald of Ase’s gaze.

The seconds tick away and so does the cloying silence, which Iver isn’t really aware of until Ase lightly cover’s Thor’s hand with her own, which pushes him to clear his throat and finally speak.

“Of course you may,” he says coolly, the smile no longer in his eyes or face. His gaze when he looks at Iver is disturbingly blank.

But then Lady Ase is smiling at him wickedly, and every other thought and fear Iver had flies straight out of his head. All he can think about is how beautiful she looks, and how green her eyes are, and how this is all he’s ever wanted-

_Green eyes. Black hair. A smug laugh in the chambers of the council room, a rebellious smile and haughty voice, Curia Regis Loki-_

Iver blinks and shakes the thought of out of his head. No. **_No_**.

Lady Ase is what he wants, not…that.

_Right?_

-

“I must admit you’ve surprised me, Iver.” Ase says, her voice the world’s most beautiful song, a smile in her voice.

Iver swallows thickly. “How so?” His hand is on her waist as he pulls her onto the floor, but her dress is so open that he can’t help but touch her naked back.

“Most of the knights hold allegiance with Lady Sif.”

_Lady Sif,_ she says. _Not Queen_.

“But you – you don’t fear showing your favor. You’re the only one out of all of them that dared ask the King’s whore to dance!”

Ase laughs as they spin and Iver feels a spark of anger in his blood.

“I wish you wouldn’t laugh like so.” He says through gritted teeth. “I don’t think its funny the way you demean yourself. When I see you I don’t see a whore. I see someone who fought and clawed their way to a position that many high officials have simply inherited. I see someone who gains authority not from something she has been given but something she has earned. That’s what I see,” Iver says, staring in the green flames of Ase’s eyes, “when I look at you.”

Ase stares back, bewilderment evident in her gaze. She looks up at him through her eyelashes, every golden butterfly in her hair twinkling in the light.

“But Iver,” she says quietly, blinking up at him innocently, “what else would you call a woman who spreads her legs open for someone else’s husband?”

Another flash of anger hits Iver but before he can act on it he’s pulled away, locked in arms with another girl, as the waltz continues. Ase laughs at him from the arms of another man.

_Catch me if you can_, her eyes seem to be saying.

When they come back together again, Iver holds her even tighter.

Ase blinks up at him, or more accurately, his tense jaw.

“Why are you so upset? It was only a joke, Sir Iver.”

Iver brushes back a lock of her hair gently.

“I don’t like your jokes.” He sighs.

Ase looks at him oddly, her eyes following his hand as it leaves her face.

“My brother Loki tells me you’ve applied every year since you turned sixteen to be a part of my personal guard. Why is that?”

Iver flinches at the sudden question.

“I don’t- Curia Regis told you that?”

“He’s my brother. He tells me everything.”

“Well, it’s a good-“

“No.” Ase cuts in abruptly. “It’s not a good _anything_, Iver. You’re close to achieving your Knight’s rank. What reason could you possibly have for wanting to be a part of my personal guard? It’s a dead end.”

“Why are you asking me that?” Iver spits back furiously. “Why are you asking me that when you look like you already know?”

Ase is quiet after that, her green eyes struck with realization. She’s quiet as they spin and twirl and as Iver guides her forward and back. But Iver can’t be bothered by it. Even quiet and pensive she is still just as beautiful and graceful. Every time he pushes her away in the waltz he pulls her back just as quickly, heart beating faster when she’s away from him.

_Just let me have this_, he thinks to what ever God is listening. _I will never have her but let me have this dance. This one dance with her._

It’s over too soon.

“Iver, let go.” Ase hisses to him.

Iver blinks, as if being awoken from a dream. A new song is about to start up, and they are the only ones left on the floor. Iver is holding onto Ase even tighter than before, her waist pressed against his in an improper manner, and Iver lets go quickly stammering out an apology.

But Ase doesn’t even look at him. She only looks to the throne uneasily, a troubled look on her face, as Thor watches them with an unreadable expression on his, tapping his fingers against the arm of the throne impatiently.

-

Iver drinks a lot after that. He’s well into his cups by the time they sing happy birthday to Lady Ase.

Images flash in his mind, a clash of Ase and Loki’s face one after the other then separately then melded together.

_Ase when she spoke in the throne room. Loki when he laughed at Dago. Ase when she locked eyes with his. Loki when he called Iver pathetic. Ase when she held out her hand to him. Loki when he told Iver to get up. Ase when she danced with him. Loki when he laughed-_

_Loki Ase Loki Ase Loki Ase Loki Ase Loki Ase Loki _ _Ase Loki Ase Loki Ase Loki Ase Loki Ase Loki Ase Loki LokiAseLokiAseLkoiaselokiaselokiaselkosiaselokiaselokiaselokiaselkoisase-?_

Thor is whispering in Ase’s ear and in a flash she is standing up and walking out of the throne room. Iver doesn’t even think. He follows.

Soon, however, Iver loses Ase in the long and winding hallways. He lays his head back against a cool wall when he realizes this and tries not to cry. The alcohol is messing him up. His emotions feel out of order. He can barely think straight.

He’s about to go back to the throne room when he catches sight of Loki instead.

Loki is about to pass him by when Iver grabs him by the wrist.

“Curia Regis.” He slurs.

Loki jumps back, clearly surprised. “Iver what – you nearly gave me a heart attack.”

“Sorry, I just – I just wanted to see you.”

_Touch you_, is what Iver really means, but seeing is nice too. At nineteen, Iver is the same height as Loki and probably twice his width. Its not something you notice when you’re a kid, but Loki has a slender build. He has skinny wrists as well, and a pretty face. One that frequently makes itself into Iver’s dreams.

“But we’ll see each other soon, don’t you think? I heard from Dago that you got your job back. Congratulations.”

Iver burns pleasantly at the praise. His breath catches.

“Oh you- you knew about that?”

Loki looks at him odd. “Of course.”

“Were you surprised?”

And here Loki does something unexpected – he laughs.

“Surprised?” Loki says through laughter. “No. Not surprised. I always knew you’d get the job back. It was only a matter of time.”

_Congratulations. It was only a matter of time._

_Stop whining, will you? You still have a hand left. Are you going to keep embarrassing yourself like this? Are you going to keep playing stupid and lay on the ground like you can’t hear me? Are you going to be this weak forever? Get up. _

_Get up._

“It’s because of you.” Iver says, voice rough, his heart stuck in his throat. “All of it – I could only do it because of you.”

Loki stares at him, puzzled. “Sorry? What was that? Did you say-“

Iver pushes Loki against the wall and kisses him. Its easier than he thought it would be. Loki is smaller than he looks. He is softer than he looks, and more pliant. Iver’s tongue slips right through, and it feels like he’s burning. It feels like he has a fever. Kissing someone has never felt this good.

_I don’t care anymore. Who do I love? Ase? Loki? Does it matter? I can’t have Ase. I will never have Ase. And if I can’t have Ase, I’ll take Loki. I’ve always wanted Loki after all, haven’t I? Always always always **always**_

Loki shoves Iver away from him.

“What the _hell_ are you doing?!” He yells.

There’s an angry flush on Loki’s pale skin. Iver stares, bewitched.

He takes a step forward. “I-“

Loki holds out a hand. “Stop.” He says dangerously. “Just stop.”

And then he turns and leaves.

-

Of course Iver doesn’t let him go.

_He cares about me. He told me to get up. He got me to where I am today. How could he not care about me? Why is running?_

“Stop following me.” Loki yells out behind him. He turns another corner.

“I just want to talk.” Iver yells back.

Loki is going too fast. Iver’s scared he’s going to lose him. A million turns and corners and hallways that Iver almost loses Loki, and miraculously doesn’t.

Until he does.

There’s a dead end, and no one else is there but a girl. Her back is facing him.

Iver curses.

“Excuse me, did you see a man pass through here? Ma’am?”

The girl doesn’t move. She doesn’t reply.

_Is she deaf?_ Iver thinks, annoyed.

“Excuse me.” Iver repeats again, this time louder, but still the girl doesn’t reply. When he looks closer he realizes she’s shaking. He frowns at the sight.

He reaches a hand out. “Hey are you-“ Iver’s word freeze in his throat. His hand stops midway to her shoulder. The girl is wearing the same military uniform Loki was. Her hair is as wild as Lady Ase’s.

“Loki?” He whispers, and the girl- the woman- turns.

“Iver,” she says carefully, a forced smile on her face. “What are you doing here?”

Iver shakes his head. He takes a step back.

“I didn’t say Ase. I said Loki. And you turned.”

The smile slips right off her – it’s – face.

And then it’s Iver’s turn to run.

-

_A golden cage…for prince Thor’s silver girl._

Isn’t that what his father said, all those years ago?

_There was this one time. This one time, Prince Thor, not King Thor, wanted something other than the throne. Back when he was a nobody. Back when nobody remembers him. There was a girl…_

_…a witch_

Has Iver ever seen them together? Loki and Ase? The favor King Thor shows the both of them – isn’t it obvious?

Loki and Ase, they aren’t brother and sister. They’re the same person. And the only person who would be capable of such a transformation is a witch.

_Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live_. Act 346. Otherwise known as Odin’s law.

_But Thor knew. He had to. How could he not have known? The bastard knows of course, and what about Modi? Does Modi know? He’s close to Atla, so he had to have known as well. Then that means half the bloody royal family knows, and they haven’t done anything, haven’t done a single fucking-_

There is a tower. Iver’s father may be a good for nothing, and a drunk, and an all around useless father, but he knows every old and lost prison on Thrudheim’s grounds.

_It was commissioned during Odin’s time_, his father had told him once, drunk. _Dwarfish gold as well, but it’s hidden by the gray mortar._ He had laughed. _Like father, like son I guess…_

If there is one place that can hold Loki, it will be this.

-

Loki falls perfectly into his trap.

When she comes into the tower he hits her on the back of the head and then chains her to some of the old manacles attached to the wall.

When she wakes, she growls at him and then blinks when she realizes she’s shackled.

Loki laughs.

She raises a hand, rattling the chain. She raises an unimpressed eyebrow.

“You think this will hold me? _Me_?” Loki laughs again, before closing her eyes and muttering something under her breath. The chains glow a bright red, but other than that, nothing happens.

Loki stops the enchantment, staring at her chains. She frowns.

“Dwarfish gold.” Iver says, his voice echoing harshly in the tower. “Your seidr doesn’t work here, witch.”

And for once, true fear starts to bleed into Loki’s eyes.

“Iver,” she says quietly. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Iver pulls out his sword from his sheath. He places the cold steel of it against Loki’s neck. His hand is shaking bad, so bad that he accidentally nicks Loki and she starts to bleed from a small cut.

“What did you to do to me?” he whispers.

“Iver,” Loki starts again, cautiously, “I have no idea-“

“You bewitched me! Why else would I dream of you? Why else would I long for you when you aren’t here? Why else-why else-“ the words feel stuck in Iver’s throat – “_why else would I be in love you!”_

The words seem to echo in the tower for a grossly long amount of time. Iver’s face burns, and of course, what other reaction would he have expected out of Loki except laughter?

And nine hells does she laugh. She laughs so hard she starts to cry, shaking so bad that she gets cut again on Iver’s sword.

“I bewitched you? I made you obsess so? I made you love me? And why on earth,” Loki says, still shaking with laughter, “would I do that?”

“Because you like me.” Iver says simply. “Because you’ve always had your eye on me, even when I was younger-“

“Iver,” Loki gasps out from her laughter, “I _hate_ you.”

_I hate you._

The words are said with such vehemence, such acid, that it makes Iver step back a bit.

_Hate?_ Iver’s head feels empty with shock. _I didn’t expect her to love me but hate? What did I ever do to make her hate me? And-_

“You’ve never acted like it. You’ve never once acted like you hated me. You were the on that pushed me to get up, Loki, remember? You’re the one who told me to stop whining. You’re the one who pushed me to get better, to get to where I am today, when I never wanted to get back up again. _You_ said it.” Iver says desperately. “You told me congratulations. That you knew I’d get my job back with the council.”

Loki stares at him, incredulous. “You’ve got it all twisted,” he says, somewhat in awe. “You’ve got it all twisted in your head, all of our interactions. I knew you’d get your job back because you’re a stubborn little shit. I didn’t dare dream otherwise. But that didn’t mean I wanted you to get it back.”

Iver stares, mind blank.

“And the spars we had? When did I say I wanted you to get back up? I meant it literally, not in whatever way you’re taking it. I wanted you to get up, Iver,” Loki says slowly, “so that I could beat you into the ground again. I called you pathetic because I _really_ thought you were pathetic. Not because I wanted you to take it as some sort of challenge to stand up again.” Loki’s eyes drill into Iver’s.

“Iver,” she says gently, voice grossly saccharine. “If I had it my way, you would never step foot in Thrudheim again.”

There is a strange buzzing sound in Iver’s head. Every memory he’s ever made with either Ase or Loki is running through his head, getting picked apart, trying to see if what Loki’s saying is true-

“I don’t believe it.” His voice sounds very far away. “You- you _saved _me-“

Loki looks at him. She’s very careful when she says

“Iver, do you ever wonder why the door was open that day?”

At first, Iver has no idea what she’s talking about. And then the realization is so instant his blood turns to ice.

“Tanner told you, didn’t he? That he locked the forge before he left. But it was open when you came. You probably assumed he was lying. That he simply forgot, maybe.” Loki smiles grimly. “But he didn’t. I opened the door, Iver. I knew you would come to sharpen your sword, I made sure of it.”

Iver feels sick.

“My son, Atla,” Loki says, voice trembling, “is my everything. I never wanted a child, but when he was born, it felt like my heart had melted. I would do anything for that boy. I would die for him. _I would kill for him.”_

Iver shudders, and Loki smiles ironically.

“But Atla, my precious Atla, would never forgive me for it.” Loki smiles to himself, then turns to face him suddenly. “You think that, even if my son didn’t tell me, that I wouldn’t know who had bullied him? Who had been at the head of those bullies?”

Loki smiles at the palpable fear on Iver’s face.

“Yes, Iver. I knew it was you. I knew that day I saw you in the throne room. It was written all over your face. You’re lucky, you know? I was only days away from killing you. I thought Atla was dead. But he came back, and then I didn’t have to kill you. I just had to punish you. And what better way of punishing you,” Loki says slowly, a malicious smile growing on her face, “than taking away your pride?”

“No.” Iver whispers.

“_Yes_.” Loki croons back. “You think it was an accident? Everything, from your dull sword, to the open door, to the broken gears – it was all me. I led you to it. I watched as you struggled with the anvil. I watched as your hand got crushed and you screamed in pain. I watched as you pleaded and screamed for help and I did nothing. _I did nothing_. I took your hand, Iver. _Me_.”

And now, finally, Iver sees everything clearly. Sees every interaction with Loki and Ase as it truly was: a taunt. Every memory where Loki’s words are encouraging to him and push him forward and make him stand up, every extra hour spent training hard just because of those words, every extra hour in the library spent fixing his handwriting because of those words – and now it all bleeds and burns away to leave only Loki’s corrosiveness and revulsion. All those memories that glittered in his mind like precious gems – now reduced to ashes.

_I hate you. I hate you, Iver._

A nasty sort of hurt crawls its way into Iver’s heart.

“You fucking bitch.” He snarls, hitting her with the back of his fist.

_I almost lost everything because of you. Everything_.

Loki’s head snaps to the side and she spits out blood. When she turns back to face Iver her eyes are glinting manically in the light. Her hair is wild around her, as she obviously had no time to put her pins back in place.

Even cornered, even hurt, even chained to the wall in a tower that reduces her to nothing, Loki only smiles defiantly at him.

“I thought I was a whore?”

The way she is so unruffled only serves to make Iver more upset.

“You’re right.” He snarls, almost nose to nose with Loki. “You’re a whore and you’re a bitch, but those things don’t really matter do they? They don’t define you. They’re not punishable by law. But _witch_…” Iver drawls it out, watching the smile drop off of Loki’s face. “That’s what you really are, isn’t it? The only thing that _truly_ defines you. And the one thing that can make you hang.”

Loki stares at him, her expression revealing nothing.

“What do you want?” She asks calmly.

“What do I want?” Iver can’t help but let out a sharp bark of laughter. _Really? It’s this easy?_ “Let’s see,” Iver says condescendingly, “what do _I_ want…”

Iver moves closer to Loki again, his breath on her face, tracing every aspect of her features with his eyes, and the thought that moves into his head is sudden and powerful.

_I want you. I want **you.**_

Iver inhales sharply and backs away from Loki quickly. He has to keep his hand from shaking again.

_Is it such a surprise? Those long hours in the training yards – who did you think of? Those long hours in the library – who did you think of? Before you went to sleep, before you fucked a girl, who did you think of? You thought of Loki. You thought of Ase. You heard her in your head before you made decisions and you saw her in your dreams. Everywhere they have followed you, the two of them. Loki and Ase. Never have they left you alone._

Maybe it helps a bit now, to know Loki is a witch and he is most likely under her spell, that if he is obsessed it is because of her and not of his own volition, but it doesn’t stop him from wanting her. It doesn’t stop the ache when he looks at her. It doesn’t stop the teeth grinding, shark frenzied desire that thrums deep in his blood.

So, he ignores his pride and says

“It’s easy. All I want – all I ask of you – is one night. One night so that I can touch you.” Iver’s eyes meet burning green determinedly. “All of you.”

And Loki- Loki

_Laughs_

It starts small at first, a chuckle, a small movement of the shoulders, and then it reaches a crescendo, her laughter mad and cackling, tears in her eyes from the supposed absurdity of his demand.

“I may be the king’s whore,” Loki says through her laughter, “but I will _never_ be yours, Iver. Thor,” she continues indomitably, “is the last man I will ever lay on my back for. So raise that sword, Sir Iver.” She says mockingly, an easy smile back on her face. “I’d rather die than be a man’s plaything again. I’d rather die,” she repeats, teeth sharper now, “than fall into another cage.”

_You’d rather die than lay with me?_

Anger strikes him so suddenly and fiercely that Iver’s teeth grind together. There is hurt there too, cutting away at him, feeding his insecurities, but the anger is preferable so Iver focuses on that – the thrum in his veins that feels like Hel fire.

All he wants to do now is hurt her – just like she’s hurt him.

“Fine,” he snarls at her, “you’d rather die than do what I say? Then I’ll do as you wish. I won’t ask anything of you and you can live peacefully. Live to see the day I take you to trial for being a witch, and then accuse your precious son Atla of being one too, because of course if _you _are then so is he. And then after that, I will charge King Thor with treason, because he willing knew and hid the fact that his mistress was a witch, and he will be flogged to death, and Atla will hang, and you will watch it all before hanging yourself. Because of your pride. Because you’d rather _die_ than sleep with me.”

Loki’s face turns ghastly pale, the blood drained from her cheeks completely. And now see how she folds into herself, makes herself smaller, backtracks – see how she _regrets_.

“Iver wait.” There is a desperate quality to Loki’s tone that Iver’s never heard before. It feeds the monster inside of him. “Iver, that’s not what I meant.” Loki crawls as far as the chains allow, begs at Iver’s feet, looking up at him with pleading eyes. She touches his leg gently. “If you want to lay with me – if that’s what you wish – _of course_-“

But it’s too late. It’s too late to pretend she wants this. Its too late to try and save her family. All Iver can hear ringing in his ears now is the way she laughed at him. The mockery and the scorn in her eyes. And if he lays with her now, he’ll know she doesn’t want it and it will kill him.

“You know what-“ Iver cuts in, angry at the way she pretends to want it, “I change my mind. I’ll kill you first. I doubt it will take a lot to prove that your son is a witch as well. You’ll just have to take my word that everyone you love will be killed. Because of you.”

Iver picks up his sword again. He lays it against Loki’s slender neck.

Secretly, Iver is scared. He’s scared that even if he kills her, the desire won’t go way. The love he feels won’t go away. He’s scared that secretly, deep down, the way he feels about her has nothing to do with seidr and everything to do with himself. It’s scary, truly, how much he wants her.

But she doesn’t want him. And that’s the only thing that matters , isn’t it? Because if he can’t have her, the way he wants her –

_Then why can anybody else have her?_

Iver raises his sword. He feels strangely calm in front of a sobbing and babbling Loki, who is obviously breaking down.

_When I kill her, all this will end_, he thinks. _I won’t ever have to feel like this again. Ever._

Iver sighs. He steadies his sword, and gets ready to swing.

“Goodbye Lo-“

But Iver doesn’t get to finish his sentence. He never will.

The sword that slices through his chest prevents him from doing so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know. I made y'all lowkey soft for Iver and then I did this :(
> 
> on another note, if i didnt add a smut scene between modi and atla would yall be mad? or would yall be mad if i DID?


	28. Kieran

He’d been looking for Atla. That was he had been doing when he followed Loki down the hall.

Modi had been desperate. Atla wasn’t talking to him and Modi rarely saw him. When Atla hid, he hid well. He knew Atla wouldn’t dare miss his mother’s birthday party and Modi was proven correct when he saw him in the throng of people with Kieran by his side.

_Kieran._

His wineglass fractured in his hand when he saw them together, glass breaking open his skin, wine and blood dripping down onto his polished shoes.

Kalissa had screamed and called for help. Modi wanted to choke her until she couldn’t speak again. She had followed him around the entire night like a persistent gnat.

When Modi turned his head to look back at the throng, however, Atla was gone. He had cursed and then decided to go off on his own, ignoring the shock on Kalissa’s face when he walked away.

That’s when he saw Loki leave the throne room. That’s when he decided to follow her.

That’s how he ended up here.

-

_Atla will hang._

That’s the only thing Modi hears when he walks out of the shadows and thrust his sword into Iver’s back. Those are the only words that repeat themselves in Modi’s mind.

_Atla will hang Atla will hang Atla will hang Atla will hang_

Modi has killed many things throughout his life but he has only killed approximately two people. One was a robber who took tried to steal his sword in Alfheim. He’d been seventeen then. The other was a deserter of the imperial army. His father had put a sword in his hand, and told him to show his future troops what happened to traitors. Modi had been fifteen at the time.

They say the third time’s the charm, but to be honest, Modi never felt remorse back then, and he doesn’t feel it now.

All he thinks is

_I warned you. I warned you didn’t I? Atla will hang? Don’t make me laugh. A world where Atla hangs is a world I don’t want to live in._

There’s no sound except metal against flesh. Iver doesn’t scream. He doesn’t make a sound. How could he? He hadn’t even seen Modi. Instead, Iver falls forward and drops like a stone on the ground. Blood pools on the ground where his chest lies. Loki stares at him, eyes glimmering, face wet with tears.

Modi looks dispassionately from where Iver is lying to grab the keys from his pocket and unlock Loki from the manacles. Loki stares at him the whole time as he does so, eyes blown wide, something like fear and awe in her eyes. When he finally releases her he’s startled to find her hands cupping his cheeks, brushing the lone hair from his face.

“Thor?” She whispers. There is something so gentle and loving about her touch that Modi can’t help but freeze. “Thor.” She repeats again, this time smiling.

Modi doesn’t now how long he stands like that, bent over her, Loki on her knees, holding his face like it’s something precious. But eventually, gently, he rests his hands over hers and says, slowly

“It’s Modi. I’m Modi.”

Loki’s smile freezes on her face. She turns to look at Iver, then seems almost to break out of a spell. She backs away from him, face expressionless again.

“I’m sorry. You just-“ She pauses painfully, staring at the sword in his hand, dripping with blood. “You look like him.” Then, staring at him again, “You remind me of him.”

Modi doesn’t know what to say to that. A lot of people say he looks like his father but nobody has ever said he’s reminded them of him. Modi doesn’t know if he likes that or not.

He turns a bit, just so he doesn’t have to stare at Loki’s endlessly indomitable stare, and is reminded of Iver’s dead body just a few feet away from them. He thinks, suddenly

_I didn’t think at all. How am I going to explain this to Thor? How am I going to explain this to the council? That I killed Iver because I was trying to protect a witch?_

Loki must see the struggle on his face, because he says calmly

“It’s okay.”

Modi only stares.

“You can go. I’ll take care of this.”

Modi hesitates. Loki’s eyes narrow.

“Leave Modi. Now. I’m not asking.”

_Loki will know. She’ll know what to do. She’s not helpless. I’m not needed, not anymore_.

But before he does

“Do you know where Atla is?”

Loki raises an eyebrow, clearing not expecting his question.

“At the stone quarry. With Kieran.”

_Of course._

So Modi turns and leaves while Loki starts to stand, muttering words under her breath. But before he’s out the doorway he takes one last look at Iver’s motionless body, remembering.

_Iver, introducing himself, smug and arrogant and taking his hand. Iver, and his torn up fists, and his crooked nose, and his teeth always filled with blood. Iver, with his dumb jokes, and his loud laugh, and the way he tried to make himself small in front of Modi, pretending, always pretending, to be the loyal dog._

_And then Iver, on the last day he ever spoke to him, after Modi warned him, running out the barn with grit on his face saying_

“You didn’t have to warn me, Modi. It’s not like I ever wanted to talk to you. It’s not like anyone who’s ever lived in this palace has _wanted_ to talk to you. They _need_ to talk to you. They _have_ to talk to you, because you’re the prince. No one wants to be your friend Modi. Nobody even likes you. You’re just sad and pathetic and lonely.”

Will anyone mourn Iver? His mother is long since dead. His father is a perennial drunk who constantly forgets his own name. His so called friends are people who were only attracted to him because of his strength. Now, with Iver gone, they will most likely fall under the wing of Vandil Hdord, a long time follower of his that Iver never really got along with, but kept because it’s nice to have people who hate you under your thumb.

Looking at Iver’s motionless body, Modi thinks

_Who’s sad and pathetic and lonely now?_

-

Atla leaves to go get something from his rooms.

“I have a gift for you,” is all he says mysteriously, grinning, before he leaves Kieran alone in the quarry.

So when Kieran hears the rustling of leaves and some twigs snapping, he assumes Atla has come back. He smiles to himself under the light of the full moon. He turns.

“Atla-“

“Wrong.” The baritone voice is unmistakable. Modi Thorson steps out from under some trees, looking like a war general in his imperial uniform, sword by his side, and his blonde hair slicked back viciously.

The smile falls from Kieran’s face. He bows his head. “Prince Modi.” He says cautiously.

Modi’s face is endlessly cool. As always, it reveals nothing. Neither displeasure or satisfaction. It leaves him looking constantly bored.

“Have you seen my brother?” He asks.

“Atla went back to Thrudheim to get something. He’ll be back shortly.” Kieran replies formally.

Modi may be the same age as him, but there is something about his eyes and the way he holds himself that makes him look much older. It puts Kieran on edge sometimes. Their first day here Kieran had kept Kalissa company as Modi practiced sparring. They had put a solid, bulky, 30 year old man in the ring with him. Kieran had winced at the time, and thought the result would be obvious. But Modi hadn’t even blinked. Only five minutes later he had the man on his knees in front of him, sword against his throat.

Modi _hmms_. His eyes flicker up and down Kieran’s body lazily.

“And what were you two doing here? At night? Alone?”

Kieran has to bite down on his tongue to keep from saying anything nasty. He doesn’t like the way Modi is looking at him.

To be honest, it had been Atla’s idea. He’d wanted to collect pixie dust for a spell he wanted to try out. Kieran had encouraged it because he had heard of the spell and he wanted to see it in practice. The spell was complicated and highly advanced seidr, something not even his sister, as a Rank 6 _kjaris_ in the Church of Five Stars, would be able to accomplish. But Kieran had an inkling that Atla might.

The only way to get pixie dust was from pixie stone. Hence the quarry. Pixie stone was only extractable on a full moon at a certain time, however, explaining the strange time they were out. And they weren’t in the quarry yet. Kieran was waiting for Atla so they could go in. Right now, both he and Modi were overlooking the quarry, very close to falling over the edge if it had been a new moon. Luckily though, since it was a full moon, you could see where the ground gave away to crumbling rock.

“That’s none of your business,” Kieran says instead, as politely as he can.

Modi just stares at him. The he chuckles, and moves closer.

“You see, I would be inclined to agree with you, if Atla weren’t my little brother, and if I trusted you.” A pause. “But I don’t.”

Kieran’s eyes nearly bug out of his head.

“You don’t trust me?”

“Kalissa told me you know.” Modi continues, completely ignoring him. “That you have a crush on him.” Modi’s eyes are a cavernous black. “You realize how wrong that is, right? Atla is just a kid. He might not know what you’re thinking when you take him to a place like this, but I do.”

“Oh yeah? And what’s that?”

Modi stares. “What else?”

For a second Kieran’s mind is blank, until it clicks. He colors.

“You- you really think I would do that? To _Atla?_”

Modi watches him coolly. “I don’t know you, Kieran. All I know is you like my brother, and that you asked him to come here with you in the middle of the night. So if you’re planning on hurting him-“

“Me?” Kieran asks again stupidly. “I’m planning on hurting him? What about you?”

Modi stops in the middle of his rant. His eyes narrow dangerously.

“What about me?”

A fight had broken out between Modi and Atla on the day they were supposed to put on a play. Atla hadn’t wanted to talk about it. All he’d said was

“If my brother tries to bother you, if he says something-“ Atla had blushed, “if he says something weird, or about you trying to take advantage of me - you can tell him that you know.”

Kieran had raised his eyebrows at him. “That I…know?”

“Yes.” Atla had given him a determined glance. “That you know about my seidr.”

The spell Kieran had taught Atla strictly forbid him from telling anybody. If he did, his tongue would swell and up and he would die choking on his own tongue. Only the caster of the spell could add provisions or revisions to it. This meant if he told Modi that he knew, nothing would happen to him.

“Your brother is a witch, yet you go spouting off anti-witch sentiment wherever you go. How do you think that makes him feel?”

The blood drains from Modi’s face. “What did you just say?”

Kieran’s fist clench. “You heard me.”

How funny to think, that before he came here, Kieran had felt bad for Modi. His cousin Kalissa was capricious. She was beautiful and she was used to getting everything she wanted. She played boys like puppets. Like they had strings attached to their hearts that she could control. And if she accidentally broke them, so what? Kalissa would only laugh. _It was an accident,_ she would always say. _I didn’t mean to take it that far._

Kieran had met other princes before. Most princes were like Atla. The soft side of him. Kind and bumbling and even shy. Of course they were soft. They were princes. They were born with silver spoons in their mouths. That was what the Alfheim prince had been, quickly eaten up by Kalissa.

With Modi, Kieran had expected much of the same. But when they stepped out of the carriage, Kieran saw that Modi had the build of a soldier. He had the posture of a soldier. He stood straight, with his hands behind his back, eerily still. His face, before it met Kalissa’s, was unnervingly blank. Calculating. It was only until she met his gaze that he smiled, which to everyone else might have looked authentic, but Kieran knew at once was fake.

And then Kalissa had blushed. Of all things, she had blushed.

And Kieran knew at once that Modi was not one to be eaten.

He was the one doing the eating.

“Where did you hear that from, huh? Was it Iver? You know that’s treason right, to talk about a royal family member like that?” Modi spits.

“Atla told me.”

Black eyes stare at him in the dark.

“You’re lying.”

“He told me. He told me because he trusts me. Because I actually _care_ about him-“

Modi laughs, something loud and ugly that echoes in the chasm of the quarry.

“What are you to him, huh? He told you? Stop lying. You’re nothing, Kieran. You’re nothing to him and you’ll always _be _nothing-“

Kieran only shrugs in the face of Modi’s rage. “He told me. Atla told me.”

Modi goes quiet. He’s not laughing anymore. There is something mean and oil slick in Modi’s eyes, something meant to make you drown.

Modi slides his sword out of his sheath. Kieran’s eyes follow the movement. That’s when he notices the blood on it and his heart goes cold. He feels himself straighten, getting ready to dodge any blow Modi makes at him, but Modi simply drops the sword on the ground.

Modi pops his knuckles. He says

“I’ll kill you.” His voice is calm. A promise. “_I’ll kill you.”_

Modi throws his fist before Kieran can even blink. It lands solidly right below his jaw and Kieran barely keeps from biting his tongue off. When Modi throws another fist Kieran is ready for it, dodges quickly, has always been fast enough that it was always hard for his sparring partners to land a punch on him.

Still, Kieran can’t shake off the feeling that Modi is simply playing with him. Letting Kieran strike back so that he can get angrier, and so that if Atla catches them it will look like a fair fight, like it wasn’t simply Modi beating Kieran to a pulp.

In the light of the full moon Modi looks crazed. His slicked back hair has fallen into his face and his eyes look murderous.

“You shouldn’t matter,” he says, almost to himself. “What did you do, to make yourself matter? I’ve known Atla for seven years. _Seven years. _And then you walk in, and you’ve only known him for five weeks, but suddenly Atla doesn’t want to talk to me? Suddenly I’m not enough for him?”

Modi’s eyes glint a cold onyx. “Does that sound fair to you, Kieran?”

_He’s crazy, _Kieran thinks dazedly. _He’s absolutely crazy._

Modi lunges and Kieran barely makes it out of the way in time, but there’s something they’ve both forgotten.

_The quarry._

They’ve been fighting closer to the edge than Kieran’s previously thought and Modi stumbles on the drop off, Kieran staring, his heart in his throat, as Modi pinwheels and tries to stop the inevitable, tries to fight gravity from falling, and then slips.

This time it is Kieran’s turn to lunge towards him, grabbing him roughly by the arm where Modi dangles over the edge.

They stare at each other for a long time, violet eyes meeting onyx, Kieran hyperaware that he is the only thing keeping Modi from falling.

_You could let go_. That’s what they’re both thinking, isn’t it? _Why don’t you let go? If it was Modi, he would let go._

But Kieran won’t. Kieran isn’t like that. Kieran isn’t built out of jealousy and maliciousness. Kieran was never made for cruelty.

And then he hears it.

The rustling of leaves. Twigs snapping. A laughing voice-

-

_Atla._

Modi hears him before Kieran does. And he knows then, what he has to do.

Kieran turns back to face Modi. He must see something in his face because Kieran stiffens, his face going pale.

“Modi,” he says plaintively, “don’t-“

_Why didn’t I see it before? My fists won’t change things. If anything, they’ll make things worse. This is what I have to do. This is how he’ll come back to me._

Modi smiles at Kieran.

And then he lets go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> iver is an understandable character. not a likeable one, but understandable. modi could have easily been like him if he hadnt become friends with atla.


	29. The Chain

_And if you don't love me now  
_ _You will never love me again  
_ _I can still hear you saying  
_ _You would never break the chain_

Modi tells him everything from a sick bed, Atla folded over him, crying.

He’s broken three ribs, dislocated a shoulder and broken a leg.

Modi’s raven eyes are blown wide when he mumbles about what happened that night, the drugs he’s on making it hard for him to keep his eyes open.

“I only asked him where you were. I was scared for you. And I wanted to apologize. And then he started talking about how it was none of my business, and I – I’ll be honest, I got upset. We started fighting and – I wanted a clean fight. I dropped my sword. But I guess it wasn’t enough for him. You should’ve seen the look in his eyes, Atla. He really wanted to hurt me. And then he did. He really thought I was trying to get in between you two, when really I was only worried where you were.”

“I’m sorry, Modi.” Atla cries. “I didn’t know – I didn’t know Kieran was like that. If I had known, how he was, that he would hurt you – I would’ve _never_ become friends with him. _Never_.”

It hurts, seeing Modi like this. Modi is strong. Modi has a body built for battle. Modi doesn’t belong in a sick bed, with pieces of him broken, and a face that is sickly pale rather than a tan gold.

Modi places a clumsy, but gently, hand on his face.

“Don’t say sorry, Atla. It wasn’t your fault. You’re not the one who pushed me into the quarry.”

Atla cries harder at that, remembering. Remembering the way Modi looked then, at the bottom of the quarry, like a broken doll. The way for one fearful second – one fearful second that seemed to last forever – Atla thought he was dead.

Modi hushes him, pulls him close on the bed.

“Don’t cry, Atla. I’m the one who should say sorry. You know I didn’t mean that back then, right? I was just upset. You’re everything to me, Atla, so sometimes I get a little crazy when you’re not here. I lied when I called you ugly. I thought it was obvious. How could you ever be anything other than beautiful?”

They fall asleep together on Modi’s sick bed, like old times, and Atla knows everything that was broken between them is now mended. Anything that Atla was upset about just falls way from him like rain.

How could it not, when Modi is his everything?

-

Kieran tries to talk to him when he leaves the hospital ward but Atla won’t hear it.

“You weren’t there, Atla. You didn’t –“

Atla turns in a fury. “I didn’t what? I didn’t _see?_ I was there, Kieran! I saw you push him off the quarry. How are you going to try and explain that away? Do you think I’m stupid? Do you _really_ think I’m _that _stupid?”

Shock paints Kieran’s face. “Atla, you know I don’t think –“

“Then stop treating me like it!” Atla screams. “Just stop! Do you really think I’m that easy to manipulate?”

“Modi is the one manipulating you!” Kieran bursts out. “I’m not trying – I’m not trying to make you think _anything_! I’m telling you like it is. Modi is the one twisting things, because he’s obsessed, because he think he can control you – you should’ve heard the way he _talked_ about you, like he owned you-“

“He’s the one who’s obsessed? Are you kidding me, Kieran? Modi has a million people-“

“He fucking in love with you! It’s _gross_.” Kieran snaps, eyes a violent lilac. “He likes to pretend to be this perfect prince, all sugar and spice and everything nice, but the truth is he only gives a fuck about you and the rest of us can go to hell! And he hates me especially, because he thinks I’m trying to take you _away_ from him-“

“Enough,” Atla says, softly at first, and then louder – “Enough.”

Everything in him feels so raw and fresh and tender and Kieran’s words are like shards of hope Atla doesn’t dare believe.

“You’re just so desperate aren’t you?” Atla says, and now he’s angry_. How dare you make me try and believe_. “Modi told me the truth. That you were the one who was jealous. That you pushed him because you thought Modi was getting in between us. Nine hells can’t you just stop – _just stop liking me!”_

Kieran stares at him, some unknown emotion in his eyes, before he blinks it away.

“Do you really believe that?” He asks quietly.

Silence. And then Atla opens his mouth and says

“Yes.”

Kieran walks away from him without another word.

-

After that, Atla spends most his days with Modi again.

“Don’t you have to spend time with Kalissa?” Atla asks him as they fall asleep together.

“I never wanted to spend time with Kalissa in the first place,” Modi tells him sleepily. “And now because of my broken leg I have an excuse not to. Honestly, I can’t wait for the Vanir to leave.”

And Modi holds him close, like he used to when they were kids, and they fall asleep just like that.

It seems that now Atla and Modi are even tied tighter than before. Atla is Modi’s personal nursemaid, and he rarely gets out of bed so they spend most of their time there. It feels like now even their heart beats are in sync, and every breathe they take the same air.

One of those nights, mama calls to him in his sleep.

_Atla. _

Atla wakes instantly. It’s the middle of the night, probably early morning, and Modi is dead asleep beside him, one arm slung over Atla’s waist. Atla carefully peels Modi off him and ventures out the room to where the voice in his head is leading him.

He finds his mama in one of the empty rooms of the West Wing, sitting on a windowsill. Loki doesn’t even turn around when he says

“You’re here.”

Atla rubs at his eyes. “What are you doing? Why are you-?”

Atla stops. There is a satchel by mama’s side, and Loki is wearing his best riding boots as well and non-descript clothing.

“Mama?” Atla whispers, and Loki says

“I’m leaving.”

It feels like the earth lays shattered at Atla’s feet. He can’t believe what he’s hearing.

“But-“

“Iver is dead.”

“Iver is…dead?” Atla says this numbly, and then – “Iver is dead. And you killed him.” There is a building surge of anger behind Atla’s chest but Loki only says

“No. No, I didn’t kill him.” Mama looks away from him. “It was your…brother. Modi.” Loki looks uncomfortable. “He was trying to save me. Save you, most likely. Iver found out I was a witch. He chained me in this tower filled with dwarfish gold where my seidr didn’t work and I thought I was done for but…Modi came. He killed Iver before he could kill me.”

“Modi…saved you?” Atla feels a budding warmth in his chest, before another thought kills it. “The body, oh no, the body-“

“The body is taken care of.” Loki says simply. “And I don’t think anyone will care about his death. He was a baron’s son. You know anyone can be a baron these days. His father is a forgetful drunk. It wouldn’t be a surprise to most people if Iver ran away. And I doubt anyone cares enough to look into it.”

“Then…I don’t get it. Why are you choosing to leave? If everything is okay-“

“When I was in there,” Loki cuts in, “I was powerless. It was one thing for Iver to try and kill me, but he was going to kill you too. He was going to have Thor and Modi tried for treason. And I…couldn’t do anything to stop it. ‘Why was a castle like that even there in the first place?’ That’s what I ask myself, Atla. That’s what scares me the most.”

Loki is quiet for a moment, before continuing.

“Do you remember the stories I used to tell you as a kid, Lala? About the princess and the three chains?”

_Lala._ Loki hasn’t called him that in a long time. It’s not a good sign.

“Yes.” Atla says hesitantly, a bad feeling in his stomach. “I remember.”

“That story was about me and your father.”

It’s like a physical blow. Atla can’t even think straight.

“You – that story was about _you?”_

“What was the first chain, Lala?” Loki says instead, quietly.

“A cage,” Atla whispers from memory. “A beautiful, golden, cage.”

“Yes. The first time your father bound me with a chain it was a cage. It was material. It was a chain I could see. Your father thought he had caught me, but I slipped out of that cage. I escaped. The first chain was not enough.”

Atla is silent, dread pooling in his stomach.

“The second time your father bound me the chain was his arms. He had been injured in a hunt. The whole kingdom was abound with rumors the youngest Odinson prince was on the brink of death. I couldn’t help it. I wasn’t strong enough. I ran back to him. I screamed at him, told him I would kill him myself if he died, and when I healed him enough that he woke up - he told me he loved me. He wrapped me in his arms and told me he would never let me go.”

Loki is looking out the window, something far away in his eyes.

“But I got restless. I ran again. And when he caught me, again, he knew this time he would need a stronger chain. A better chain.” Loki laughs breathlessly. “Yes, the third time your father bound me with a chain even stronger than the one that binds Fenrir. Except this chain was made out of flesh and blood, and it had a heart, and it was the most beautiful chain I had ever seen.”

Loki stares meaningfully at Atla. Atla feels his eyes water.

“You mean I was-?”

“I never wanted a child. Sif didn’t want me to have a child either, not before her at least. Thor agreed it would bring chaos upon the kingdom. I prayed every night that Sif would remain sterile. When she had Thrud I was relieved. I prayed she would have another girl. And another, and another, so that Thor would fear ever impregnating me. But then she had Modi, and Thor was more restless than ever. And I had you. And you became my world, Atla. I couldn’t leave you. I _wouldn’t_ leave you.”

“So I was a burden,” Atla says numbly, “and you never loved father because father forced you-“

“No.” Loki says sharply. He hops off the windowsill. “No. You were never a burden. And I love your father.” Loki laughed something manic. “Nine hells, how I love your father.” Loki’s hands come up to cup Atla’s face. “And how I love you.”

“Then why-?” Atla asks painfully.

“I’m a witch, Atla. I’m a natural wanderer. Witches don’t have homes. When I was a child and I envisioned my future, it wasn’t this. It wasn’t playing at advisor or mistress. No, it was traveling the world. Visiting all nine realms. There nothing I valued more, treasured more, than the world. Why do you think I named you such, Atla? I treasured the world, and then you became my world. _Atla_. My greatest treasure.” Loki’s eyes soften. “But your older now, Atla. You don’t need me as much. And its time for me to go back to the world I once loved.”

“Of course I need you!” Atla cries. “You’re my mama! Did you hate every single moment you were trapped in this palace with us? Did you stay by our side longing to be free again?”

“Lala,” Loki says softly, eyes pained. “You’re breaking my heart. Of course I enjoyed every moment by you and your papa’s side. I enjoyed my roles, I enjoyed controlling things according to my role and putting terrible people in their place. I enjoyed the games and the politics and the way it felt like I controlled the world. I enjoyed the calm before we came to the palace as well because the years before I had you had been tumultuous. But I tire of the games now, Atla, as I tired of the Deadwood long ago. Iver is the sign that it’s time to move on. Palace life is…diseased.” Loki curls his lip. “It turns even the best people nasty. I didn’t like the boy, but what choice did Iver have? He’s grown in a kingdom where value is determined by your rank. Of course he would do anything to be…more. Of course he would hate me, fear me, when every law in Asgard warns against our kind. The more I stay here, the more I’m in danger. And when I’m with your papa…I lose sight of that danger. I feel like he’ll protect me always. When I’m with him I lose myself. We both lose a bit of ourselves, in each other. And though I love him - _god _do I love him - though he owns more of me than any person ought to own…that is not a healthy way to live.”

“But you said papa chained you.” Alta says, voice trembling.

And Loki smiles a sad smile. “He chained me, yes, but do you really think I am powerless against such material chains?”

“Did you say goodbye to him too?”

“No.” Loki says quietly. “If I told him goodbye, he would only convince me to stay. Your father is the only person in this whole world that I am weak against.”

Atla throws himself into his mama’s arms, hugging Loki tight against him.

“I’ll miss you, mama.” He whispers and Loki hugs him back.

Before Loki leaves, he turns back once more to face Atla. He looks hesitant.

“Your brother…”

“Modi?”

“Yes.” Loki says cautiously. “Be careful with him. The way he watches you sometimes…just remember not all chains are ones you can see.”

And then Loki slips out the window and into the dark night.


	30. Forever

It seems like everything has worked itself in Modi’s favor, as always.

What was it that Thrud used to say?

_You have a way of getting what you want, before you even want it._

Yes, it definitely seems that way, doesn’t it? Atla is back at his side, clinging to him tighter than ever. Kieran has been tossed aside, as he should’ve been a long time ago. The Vanir are leaving soon. Kalissa is no longer breathing down his neck. Even better, it seems that Atla now hates Kieran for supposedly throwing him down the cliff.

He can’t help but laugh at the thought of Kieran trying to convince otherwise.

_Didn’t I tell you back then? I’ve known Atla all my life. Did you really believe he would believe you over me?_

When his mother wakes him up from bed, he is only mildly surprised to see Atla is not in bed with him.

_Probably went to get me breakfast_, he thinks casually. It’s happened before.

It’s almost noon and that probably explains the thin look of distaste his mother sends him, for still being in bed.

“The Vanir party is leaving today. It would be entirely rude of you if you weren’t at the sendoff, especially considering your…fiancée.”

Modi barely keeps from groaning. He wants to stay in bed longer. He wants to eat breakfast with Atla. But he’s still a prince. And he still has his princely duties.

“I’ll be there,” Modi replies dutifully.

-

Modi says goodbye to everyone of Kalissa’s cousin like they’re checkmarks on a list he has to complete. Kalissa has to be the worst goodbye.

It’s embarrassing to see the naked need on her face as she threads her fingers through his, desperate for any scrap of affection.

“You’ll write won’t you?” She asks, a look in her eyes like he’s the only star she’ll ever revolve around.

“Of course,” he replies back politely, and, feeling bad, gifts her with a small smile.

This bare comfort seems to placate her immediately. She gives Modi a dreamy smile.

“I’ll miss you,” she says, and if she expects him to say it back, she hides it well.

Modi thinks he’s done with goodbyes, when all of a sudden Kieran walks up to him. For once, boyish Kieran, whose face is always so readable to Modi, is expertly blank.

Modi holds out a hand and tries not to smile too widely.

_It’s not polite to gloat._

“Kieran,” he greets, but Kieran does not shake his hand.

“You’re really messed up, you know that?” He says bluntly.

_Ah, so it’s going to be like this._

The smile drops from Modi’s face. He looks at Kieran neutrally.

“We were playing a game, and you lost. Now it’s time to accept your defeat like a big boy and move on.”

Kieran’s eyes spark an hot violet. “See? That’s exactly what I mean. You can’t treat the world like a game to be played, Modi. Atla isn’t an object to be _won_.”

Modi is already bored with the conversation. “You’re only saying that because you lost.”

Kieran flushes an ugly red. “That’s not – I didn’t-“ Kieran flounders. It’s disgustingly obvious, how for a moment, he’s picturing how it would’ve been if he had won. After a couple minutes of floundering, however, he takes a deep breath and starts again.

“Do you love Atla?”

This seems like a silly question. Modi answers automatically.

“I’d give him the moon in a box if he asked.”

Kieran looks at him queerly. “That’s what you say. But is it love, really? You know Atla told me he never had a friend beside me before?”

Modi is startled into anger. “That’s not-“

Kieran rolls his eyes. “Outside of you, Modi. And you barely count, since you’re his brother anyway. Atla talked a lot about you when we were together. He seems to have some idolized picture of you in his mind. He told me that you kept the rest of the children of the court from bullying him.”

Modi can barely keep the pleasure of his face at the image.

_Atla talked about me when he was with Kieran?_

Kieran seems to catch on to this, because he makes a disgusted face. He continues.

“So while Atla blabbered on about you, I couldn’t help but find it strange. You kept a court of children from bullying him, but couldn’t use that same power to give him one friend, outside of yourself? How many children of the court are there? Aren’t there hundreds? I doubt all of them cared that Atla was a child born out of wedlock.”

Modi opens his mouth in a fury, to say something, to defend himself – but finds his own voice to be lost to him.

Kieran seizes on Modi’s temporary muteness, pouncing like a cat that’s found a weak chain in the link.

“You know what I think? You liked that Atla had no friends. You liked that Atla could only rely on you. And when I came, and threatened all of that, you made sure to take me out of the picture. As long as Atla stays here, where you’re comfortable, where you’re surrounded by your people – he will always rely on you. He will always need you. And you like that. You love that.”

The coachman calls for Kieran.

Kieran turns, as if to leave, then adds one more thing.

“I just want to say it won’t always be like that. And you should know, since you’re so fond of games – you can’t always win them. One day, Atla is going to leave you, and there’s going to be nothing you can do about it. That’s all. Goodbye.”

-

There’s a helpless sort of fury raging inside of Modi’s chest.

_How dare he. How dare he. Atla would never leave me. Why would he? Atla _loves_ me-_

Modi suddenly feels, out of nowhere, a sudden anger at his mother for forcing him to say goodbye to the Vanir. It’s put him in a bad mood, and he knows he’s going to be in a bad mood for the rest of the day.

Father wasn’t even there. If it was important, if it mattered, father would’ve been there. But of course, since it’s Thor, mother won’t force him to come.

Modi catches sight of Queen Sif in the hall and decides

_What a better outlet for my anger?_

“Father wasn’t even there,” he snaps, speaking out his thoughts. “You know how much I hate those frilly Vanir. You made me limp out of bed for nothing.”

Sif’s eyes flicker to Modi’s face and then quickly away.

“Your father is otherwise occupied.” She mutters vaguely.

“With what?” Modi snaps back. “Something important obviously, which means sending the Vanir off was decidedly _unimportant_.”

There is a tight set to his mother’s jaw when she replies.

“Your father is a busy man, Modi.”

“With what?”

A sudden resignation seems to fill Sif’s eyes then.

“You really want to know?”

“Do you think I ask questions for the sake of asking questions?”

Sif laughs, something cruel and biting. “Fine,” she says lazily, but her body posture seems to say otherwise, as taught as a wire.

“Loki has run away. Thor has gone on horseback with fifty other scouts to find her. They’re ringing the alarm bells in every little town on the edge of Thrudheim and putting up wanted posters with her picture on them.”

It feels like there’s an implosion in Modi’s chest. Like a glacier has cracked open in his heart and is letting all the cold out, a cold that wraps its icy tendrils around Modi’s heart like the worst kind of fear. His first thought is not for Loki, but for Atla, who was missing from his bed this morning.

“And what of Atla? Did Atla go with him?”

Sif seems taken aback by his question. She watches Modi extra sharply.

“The boy? I’m not sure.” Her brow wrinkles, considering. “I haven’t seen him all day, though. It’s possible they could have left together.” Then, as an afterthought – “Your father was a mess, like I’ve never seen him.”

“That’s not possible, that’s not-“ Modi shakes his head, frantic. Unstable. “I’ve just got him back he wouldn’t have –“

Sif watches him, confused at first, and then realization strikes her. Her lip curls in disgust.

“You want for him.”

Modi doesn’t know what sets it off. Whether it’s the look on his mother’s face, or the terrible sinking feeling in his chest – either way nothing is going to stop him from lashing out, from sneering in her face-

“He’s _mine_.” Some feral animal in him, guarding Atla’s bloody heart jealously in his maw. “You can’t want something that’s already _yours_.”

And Sif, shaking her head, sadness and disgust and pity all mixed into some ugly color on the easel of her face.

“They’re cursed. Atla’s cursed you. That whole family is a curse. You are too much like your father, Modi – already I see it. You’re sick with it, the need – its better if they never come back at all –“

“You don’t know anything.” Modi cuts in sharply, his heart beating in his chest like a battering ram. “Atla wouldn’t leave me. Not me.”

-

Modi goes to the west wing.

If there’s one place Atla will be, it will be there.

But every door Modi knocks down and Atla isn’t in there, is another lead weight added to his chest, sinking him further into despair.

_Let this be the one, _he prays._ Let this be the one let this be the one let this be the one let this be the one let this be the one let this be the one let this be the one let this be the one let this be the one let this be the one let this be the one let this be the one-_

And then there is Atla, in one of the empty rooms, sitting in a windowsill.

It feels like Modi was holding his breath, and at the sight of Atla, he can finally breath again.

“Atla.” Modi breathes, as if he were some ghostly apparition, and not just a boy sitting in a room.

Atla turns, and his face is a mess, puffy eyes and tear stained cheeks.

“She left, Modi. Mama, she left…”

And Modi is walking forward, running almost, wrapping Atla into his arms, tucking him safe from the world, as Atla shakes and trembles and cracks at the seams, crying for his mama.

“Shh, shhh…” Modi hushes, cradling Atla in his arms. “I’m here, Atla, I’m here, I’m here…”

“M-maybe I should’ve gone with her-“ Atla stutters out. “Maybe-“

Modi feels a cold fill him.

“No.”

“But she’ll be lonely, she’ll-“

“Atla, stop.”

“You don’t get it, Modi!” Atla cries. “She needs me! My mama needs-“

“**_And what about me_**?!” Modi explodes, grabbing Atla by the shoulders and shaking him violently. “You don’t think _I’ll _be lonely? You don’t think _I _need you?”

Atla blinks big bovine eyes at him, startled into silence by the harshness of Modi’s words.

Modi feels himself, all at once, desperately unraveling.

_‘You can’t always win, Modi.’_

_‘You’re already sick with it, the need-‘_

_‘One day, Atla is going to leave you, and you won’t be able to do a thing about it.’_

“When you were playing around with Kieran, did you think of me? When you spent hours with him, no _\- days_, cooped up in his room doing God knows what, did you even spare a thought for me? Its like when the Vanir came, you suddenly became a whole different person. Like I didn’t matter anymore. God, you even told him you were a witch! You _told_ him. A boy you’d only known for four weeks! Do you know how that made me feel? Do you know how much that fucking shocked me? And I know your mother is gone, and I know it hurts, but she _left_, Atla! She _choose_ to leave. I’m still here, with you. Doesn’t that count for something? Doesn’t it count for _anything?”_

Modi brings his hands up to cradle Atla’s head, and squeezes hard.

“I wonder what’s in that head of yours. Sometimes I wish I could hear your every thought. I want to know how much you think of me. If you ever think of me.”

Modi’s heart is pounding hard in his chest. His face is flushed. He knows he’s already showed too much of his hand. That effortless cool that comes with everyone else – its impossible in the face of what he feels for Atla. Its impossible to pretend not to care, when he cares too much.

So when Atla laughs, it’s the last thing Modi expects. It feels cruel. But then-

“_Do I ever think of you?_ Modi, are you stupid? You’re the _only _thing I think about. Always. All the time. No matter who I’m with, I’m wondering who you’re with. If you’re having more fun with them than me. If you like them more than me. And I didn’t tell Kieran. He found out. He got caught in one of _your _traps, Modi. He would’ve bled out and then you would have been charged with manslaughter. I had to save him. I had to use my seidr. And you want to know the ugly truth? I would’ve let him _die _before letting him see my seidr, if it wasn’t for you. If I wasn’t so worried about what would happen to you. If I wasn’t so – so – so fucking in love with you!”

Modi stares, wide eyed and silent, at an out of breath Atla who looks close to crying.

“Is that true? You didn’t want to tell him? You…you love me?”

Atla breaks out in hysterical laughter. “Yes, Modi, I love you, and I know you’re probably disgusted, and I know you don’t love me, not in that way-“

Modi kisses him. It’s something hungry. It’s something desperate. It’s not really a kiss at all, but more Modi trying to devour Atla whole.

_This is what it was_, Modi thinks, the monster in him settling a bit. _This is what I was missing. This is the missing piece, that will make him mine forever._

Modi breaks apart for a second, his breath mixing with Atla’s, sharing the same space, the air charged.

“I didn’t know.” He says, breathing hard. “Until you said that, I didn’t know. The depth of my feelings, of how much- _God-_” Modi takes a deep breath, “of how much I love you.”

_Is this love, though? Is this monster in his chest, the one that wants to own Atla, that wants to chain Atla to him - can such a sharp and mean thing be love?_

_More than love,_ Modi thinks finally. _More than love, because I would die before giving him to anyone else._

Tears fill Atla’s eyes again. He shakes his head, almost resigned.

“You love me, Modi, but not like that. Not like-“

Modi grabs Atla’s wrist roughly and places it on his cock. Atla’s eyes go wide again.

“You feel that?” He says roughly, voice raw. His cock is so hard it could hammer nails. “When you started clinging to me, all your skin pressed against mine, crying in my ear, I tried to keep it down. Then you said you loved me, and that you always think of me, _always_, and I didn’t bother.” Modi groans. “Fuck, Atla, do you even see yourself? How pretty you are?”

“Say it again,” Atla says, eyes blown.

“You’re so fucking pretty, baby, so gorgeous-“

“No, the other thing.”

Modi blinks. He smiles. “I love you.” Kisses the underside of Atla’s jaw. “I love you.” A kiss to his cheek, and then, staring into his eyes, “I love you,” before kissing him on the lips.

They move from the windowsill onto the empty bed, Modi laying him down gently.

“All the useless shit in this palace, all the things I’ve been given, the world – none of it compares to you. All the jewels in Thrudheim, all the realms Asgard has conquered, every dignitary gift and sword and gem, every coin in our treasury – I could give a fuck about it all. You’re the only thing I’ve ever needed, Atla. You.”

-

They kiss for a while, at first desperate and frantic, overwhelming, and then they melt into something slow and hot and passionate.

Modi traces the band of Atla’s shorts delicately as Atla runs his fingers through Modi’s hair.

“I’m going work you open first,” Modi whispers, mouthing at Atla’s ear, grinding his dick against Atla’s. It’s been hard for a while now and it feels like he’s about to explode.

Modi licks a trail down Atla’s neck. “We’ll start with your cunt this time, it’ll be easier on you,” Modi murmurs, and Atla whines. Modi shivers at the sound, dick hardening even more if possible.

When Modi pulls down Atla’s shorts he laughs. He grabs Atla by his cock gently.

“Look at this. It looks like a decoration. It’s so…cute.” Modi laughs again. “I can’t believe I never realized. I always thought it was strange I never saw you with a girl but what girl could this little thing pleasure?”

Atla colors charmingly. He kicks at Modi’s head.

“Shut up,” he spits out.

“Aw, are you upset?” Modi teases. This only seems to incense Atla more.

“You never saw me with a girl because I don’t like girls. I like boys. And you don’t need a big dick to be with a boy.”

The smile falls right off Modi’s face.

“If that’s a joke I don’t find it funny.” Modi tries to say calmly.

“I didn’t find your joke funny, but you kept teasing me anyway.” Atla snaps back.

“Who was it?” Modi’s good mood has evaporated entirely. He’s somewhere else now, thinking of who it could’ve been. _Mikael? Elias? Niklaus?_ He’s thinking of tearing them apart with his bare hands.

“Just tell me, I’m not going to do anything to them. I just want to know. I just-“ A horrible thought strikes Modi. His face darkens. “Was it Kieran?”

Atla bursts out laughing.

“Oh my god you are so – so – _so paranoid_! It was a joke, Modi. I’ve never been with anyone before.”

Modi’s heart settles. It felt like it was about to burst out his chest.

“You scared me, Atla. _God_, you scared me. I know it isn’t fair, considering my history, but just the thought of someone else touching you, who isn’t me, drives me _crazy_-“

Atla holds Modi’s face in his hands.

“Hey,” he says gently, eyes soft. “I would never let anyone else touch me. You know that. Now fuck me, yeah? So I don’t remember anyone else.”

-

Atla is wet when Modi enters. Modi’s never felt anything like it. No girl has ever been this soft when he’s entered. Atla feels like silk. Atla feels like he’s sucking him in. Modi has to bite down hard on his lip so that he doesn’t come right away. He bites down so hard, in fact, that he draws blood.

“Atla,” he gasps out, and it feels like he’s the virgin, “Atla, shit, fuck, nine hells-“

Atla’s nails are digging into Modi’s back like a hellcat. He’s snarling, digging his feet harder into Modi’s hips, trying to push him deeper.

“Hurry up,” he snaps. “Just push in. The way your going – it feels like your going to break me in half slowly.”

So Modi, after taking a deep breath, thrusts hard in one snap of his hips and they both groan, Atla crying out something beautiful, tears in his aquamarine eyes. Atla’s face glimmers with sweat and some curls stick to his face in the heat. He’s completely naked, his collarbones so elegantly pronounced and everything about him so delicate it feels like Modi will break him.

Modi holds Atla even closer to him, so tight he can hardly breathe.

He thrusts in, again and again, and it’s like he can’t even control himself at this point, Atla’s walls closing in around him, all velvet heat, Atla moaning in his ear and it’s everything Modi’s ever dreamed about, everything he’s never realized he needed.

“You’re everything to me, baby.” Modi groans out, as he fucks hard into Atla’s cunt.

“Everything.”

-

There was a moment during Loki’s banquet that she stood behind Thor on his chair and laid a hand on his shoulder. Thor, unthinkingly, put his hand on top of hers.

Modi remembered staring. Kalissa had been badgering him and he’d been swirling wine in his glass, thinking about Atla – _atla atla atla_ – when he looked up and got caught on the sight.

For a second, his mind was blessedly blank. Void of any thoughts of Atla, or how Kalissa was fucking annoying, or how he would kill Kieran when he got his hands on him.

All he could see, in his mind’s eye, was the way Loki towered over his father, green lacquered nails digging into Thor’s shoulder almost proprietarily, as Thor placed his hand over hers, and Loki watched the room of people with sharp, hawk-like eyes.

And all Modi could think was

_Father is owned. People may look at Loki, his whore, his mistress, his unlawful lover who he keeps in the west wing like a pet, and think she is the one who is owned, but that’s not true. Father is owned. And it is Loki who owns him._

And Modi knows too, with Atla held close to him, chest rising and falling with every breath, that Atla owns him too. Modi may be the one with a million friends, with a rank no one can ever question, with a strength and prowess than no one could ever question, and a kingdom with laws that favor him; but without Atla, none of it matters.

Atla, who has no friends other than him, who lives in a kingdom with laws designed to kill his kind, whose greatest strength is one he will never be allowed to show – this is the boy who owns every part of Modi.

_I wonder_, Modi muses, _what she was thinking that night when she looked at the crowd. Was she already planning her escape? With her hand on his shoulder, with Thor right beside her, was she already thinking about the million ways she could leave him?_

Modi holds Atla tighter at the thought – it scares him that much.

_That was father’s one mistake_, Modi thinks, shivering. _He let Loki know he owned him. And not being owned himself, Loki fled._

Modi scrapes his teeth against Atla’s neck.

_I won’t make the same mistake. Let Atla think I own him. Let the world think that I own him. Whatever happens, I won’t ever let him know he owns me._

_Because then you’ll leave right? Because then you’ll realize there is a whole world other than me. And I can’t let that happen. I won’t ever let that happen._

_Because you belong with me. Forever._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope the smut wasnt TOO bad lmao im hella burnt out


	31. Thor: Interlude

_the truth was, when atla was born, all fragile and bird bones and small and delicate, thor's heart had melted. all that preciousness had seemed endearing. everything that looked weak on him was beautiful._

_but when modi was born, delicate and fragile as well, face red from crying, from trying to breath, none of it had seemed endearing. it had struck a bone deep chill in thor. a fear like he was about to flayed alive. how could a small thing like this ever hope to survive in thrudheim?_

_all that weakness that had looked so charming on atla struck a dread in him when it was on modi._

_modi was not atla. modi would not grow up coddled in the deadwood, alone with his mother. no, modi would grow in thrudheim, with its sharp edges, and cold marble floors, surrounded by envious faces and mouths, and greedy hands ready to tear him apart. modi would grow up not as thor's son, but as a prince._

_and princes were fair game to all of life’s cruelties._

_thor knew then, holding modi in his arms, that he would raise him to need no one but himself._

_that he would raise him to be strong, and fearless, and as cold as jotunheim ice._

_and most of all, he would raise him this way so that he would live._

-

There is no sign of Loki when Thor wakes.

If it were a regular day, Thor would not worry. Loki often wakes earlier than him. But the stink of seidr is strong in the air and his eyes feel heavy not with sleep, but rather Loki’s trickery.

The first thing Thor does is send men to search every room in the palace. He sends men to the gardens and the stalls and all the empty and crumbling buildings – even goes to their old place in the deadwood – but its as Thor has feared.

Loki is gone.

And all Thor can think is

_It’s Iver’s fault. It’s all Iver fault. From the grave – look what he has cost me._

The night after the banquet finished Loki came to him covered in blood. Thor’s legs had barely kept from buckling. He thought Loki had been attacked.

Loki, his eyes empty, shook his head.

“Iver’s blood.” Was all he said, before telling him all that had happened that night without prompting.

Thor had a million questions, a million feelings churning in him at the matter. Rage at Iver. Fear at what could’ve happened. Pride for Modi. A bone deep gratefulness that nothing had happened, to either of them.

But all those feelings paled in comparison to the need to hold Loki tight in his arms, to make sure he was okay. Thor reached for him and Loki

Loki stepped back.

Thor blinked. Loki looked back at him, gaze cold and endless.

“Why did a tower like that exist, Thor?”

“What?”

“Dwarfish gold. You promised you would never do such a thing again. So why was there a tower built of it?”

Thor stares. “You – You can’t possibly think I had anything to do with this. You think I commissioned that tower? Why? Whatever for?”

Loki stares at him, silent. And the thought is transparent.

_A back up plan. In case Loki ever tried to leave again._

“Loki,” Thor says, pained shock in his voice. “Loki,” he tries again, gentler this time. He holds out his hand as if approaching a wild animal, as he did the first time he met Loki, when he was all colt like skinniness and distrust. “I promised you, didn’t I? I promised you, after, to never do that again.”

Thor waits, hand held out, patient-

_It’s easy enough. Thor has had to learn patience with Loki. Has learned to be patient all his life, waiting for him._

And Loki folds. His eyes soften. He wraps his arms around Thor’s neck, like a baby monkey hanging onto its mama, tight.

“I was scared.” He confesses. “I haven’t been scared in a long time.”

And Thor breathes him in, all soothing lavender.

“I know, baby,” he replies gently. “I know.”

-

But it wasn’t enough, was it?

The seed of mistrust had been sown.

-

Sif tells him to let it go.

“You’ll never find him.” She says, everything about her shining, happy that the cloud of shame that followed her is gone. “You only found him before because he let you. Because he wanted to be found. He’s gone for good this time.”

For a second, a cloud of black rage engulfs him, like the ones from his youth. He’s angry at Loki. He wants to drag him back in chains, throw him into a hole and never let him see sunlight again. How could Loki leave him, after all they’ve been through together? After they’ve finally learned to trust each other? Is this how he repays every freedom Thor gave him?

Thor has to take a deep breath to calm himself. _No. Loki in chains is not what you want. Not really. You just want him by your side._

“You don’t get it.” Thor sneers back at Sif. “There was a misunderstanding. If I could only explain-“

“It doesn’t matter the misunderstanding,” Sif says matter of factly. “Loki was always going to leave. That’s a witches way. They’re wanderers, Thor. They don’t stay in one place. She’s tired of all this.” And then, the worst thing she could say – “She’s tired of you.”

-

That night, Thor dreams of the past.

After all his brothers had been killed, after the war with Svartalfheim won, Thor and Loki had laid tangled together on a bed.

Loki from back then is delicate in every way. The slim shoulders and pronounced collarbones. The big bovine eyes that stared at Thor as if he were a God.

Dream Loki says

“Do you love me?”

_Yes._

Dream Loki says

“Would you give up the throne to be with me?”

And Thor says,

Thor says,

Thor says…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we have one more chapter and then the epilogue


	32. FINALE

Sif tells him his father is calling.

“It’s important,” is all she says, face grim and her lips tight. The displeasure is evident.

Modi kisses Atla’s sleeping head before leaving.

_Mine_, he thinks. _All mine, finally._

When he reaches the throne room, he’s surprised to find his father standing by the window, and not sitting on the throne. He’s also surprised to find his father is dressed in casual wear, simple trousers and a smock as if he were a civilian. As if he were a true Upsala meat seller.

“Are we role playing today?” Modi asks, an eyebrow raised, and Thor says

“I’m leaving.”

The mockery falls from Modi’s face, replaced by blank confusion.

“What?”

Thor turns to face him properly. His blue eyes don’t waver.

“I was about your age when I ascended the throne.” He says casually. “When I took it from my father.” Thor watches him with a certain gravity. “I think it’s your time as well.”

A strange buzzing sound fills Modi’s ears. He can barely think straight. He can’t process the image in front of him, his father dressed as a commoner, the words coming out of his mouth.

“What are you saying?”

“You’re king now, Modi.”

Modi opens his mouth, then closes it. He stares at his father.

_King?_

“Of course,” Thor concedes, “it doesn’t have to be immediate. I’ve already discussed the matter with your mother. She will be in charge of things until you have a proper ceremony of ascension. But she will only serve as a place holder for you.”

“I don’t understand,” Modi finally manages, swallowing. “Where are you going?”

And isn’t that a stupid question? Because –

“I’m going to find Loki.”

Modi stares at his father. He says it so plainly. Like it’s a given he’ll find him. Like he’s not afraid to admit his own vulnerability. What had Modi said once?

_I will never be like him. I will never be so weak. I will never be so dependent on another person to live._

How Modi was eating those words now. How terribly, wonderfully weak he was for Atla now.

Modi considers not saying anything, then says something anyway.

“What if Loki doesn’t want to be found?”

It’s a harsh reality. One that Thor evidently has considered, because he isn’t shaken by the words. He watches Modi neutrally.

“I thought about that. And then I thought of every interaction I’ve ever had with Loki. All the things he might’ve tried to tell me, in secret. Maybe there was a message for me in there, somewhere. And then I remembered, Loki didn’t want to be with me in the first place. He didn’t want to live in the Deadwood. He didn’t want to be a mistress. He didn’t want to share me with Sif. But he did it, because I asked it of him, and he loved me too much to say no.” Thor turns back to the window. “I think it’s time, now, for me to give something up as well.”

Modi watches his father, the light illuminating him from behind. “I see,” he says quietly.

He’s about to give his farewell, when his father turns to face him again.

“Modi,” he says, face serious, “you know I love you right?”

Modi pauses. He waits. When Thor’s face remains serious, Modi laughs.

“You?” He says, still smiling sardonically. “You love Loki. You love Atla. You’ve never loved me.”

“No,” Thor disagrees. “I have never spoiled you as I spoiled them. I never dared show my favor. Fragility looks different on your face, than it does on Atla’s. Atla’s weaknesses endeared me. Yours filled me with a sense of dread.”

Modi feels a mounting sense of anger fill him at Thor’s words.

“Is that your excuse? For all the things you did to me? My weakness scared you?”

Thor shrugs. “Call it what you want. I know my truth.”

Modi lets out a surprised laugh. “You’re shameless. You are _shameless._ So you’re telling me you didn’t forget my birthdays? You didn’t lose the set of knives I bought you for yours? That all those hours in the training yards, embarrassing me, beating me down – it was because you _loved _me?”

Thor’s gaze doesn’t leave his. “I forgot your birthdays on purpose. I didn’t want you to need me. I didn’t want you to need _anyone_. If I had to make you hate me, that was okay. I didn’t want you to look upon me as a god who could solve all your problems. I am not a god, Modi.” Thor looks at him knowingly. “But you used to look at me as if I were.”

Modi bites down on the insides of his cheeks, red creeping up his neck.

“If I made you spar with older boys, If I made you spar with me – it was only because I wanted you to be the best sword fighter in all nine realms. And look at you.” There is a softness in Thor’s voice that Modi has never heard directed at him. “Look at yourself. Do you need anybody? Do you need me? Do you need protection?” Thor smiles. “No. You don’t. People need protection from _you_. People need _you_.”

Modi stares at his father, so upset he refuses to speak.

Thor sighs. He goes to his rucksack and pulls out a velvet rectangular box. When Thor opens the box, metal glints back at Modi.

Modi is speechless.

“I’ve kept these in my work drawer all these years. I thought they were too precious to waste. I knew a time would come when I needed them.”

Three knives, all dwarfish silver, glitter menacingly in the light. They are in mint condition.

“I liked the knives you gave me so much I gave a dignitary the same gift. Of course I kept yours. How could I not? The amount of krone you spent on these shocked even me.”

Thor laughs, and still, Modi doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know whether to feel moved or disgusted or…

Thor, noticing Modi’s shock, goes quiet again and places the box back in his rucksack. There is an emotion in his eyes that Modi doesn’t recognize at first, but then belatedly realizes it looks dangerously close to _love._

Thor pushes a lock of Modi’s hair back, that emotion still strong in his eyes, and says

“Atla may be my heart, Modi, but you are my pride.”

How many times as a child did he yearn to hear those words? To see that look of pride? That look of unabashed love? And how Modi feels nothing at it, now.

And isn’t that the whole point?

Thor smiles sadly, as if reading Modi’s thoughts.

“Look at you,” he says. “I trained you so well. You don’t even look moved.”

-

Modi’s father departs with a significant look.

“You will marry Kalissa,” he says. “This is the only stipulation to your ascension. Anything else would result in war.”

And Modi says

“Of course father,” but thinks to himself, _of course father, I will have a wife, and I will not love her, and she will have children, and I will not love them, and I will have Atla, and I will love him, and I will love his children, and my wife's children will find them, and they will hate them, until (eventually, finally, **inevitably**) they will love them more than anything in the world._

_You thought you taught me how not to need anyone. You’re wrong. Because I didn’t have a mother, because I didn’t have a sister, because I didn’t have _you_, I was forced to rely on one person. All you’ve really made me is dependent on one person._

_I may not need anyone else, but you’ve made me need Atla more than anything in the world._

_-_

Modi has everything in life except the love of his father.

Or at least, that’s what he used to think.

But does it matter anymore? He has Atla’s love, and that’s enough. It’s more than enough.

It’s all he needs.


	33. Sins of the Father

**SINS OF THE FATHER**

Yosef is not a curious child by nature.

What is there to be curious about? Yosef already has everything in the world - already knows the answer to every question it poses. Yosef once had a horse with a gold collar who had his own made up title of chancellor that ranked higher than even Modi’s most prominent war general.

And, besides that, there is little time to be curious about anything. Yosef has classes all day and after classes he has sword practice and after sword practice the day is practically over. Yosef is the only boy to stay in the training yards far past when the sun goes down. He doesn’t want to stay that long, but father makes a face when he doesn’t – his displeased face like the beginning of a thunderstorm.

Yosef’s mother is no better. Yosef learned from a very young age that he was not like other boys in that he was not meant for playing. Father discouraged it, and Kalissa was always busy.

“Mother,” he would say from the frame of her door, “would you like to play a game?”

Mother’s room was always filled with the smell of sickly sweet burning Aster. Her room was always filled with smoke and Modi had warned him many times before not to wander into mother’s rooms too much. Kalissa was always surrounded by an entourage. Their cheeks would be bright red with rouge, mother playing with her pearl necklace, as they all giggled at some joke Yosef didn’t understand.

Kalissa would always frown when he walked into her rooms, her violet eyes twins of his.

“Yosef, you are a prince,” she would berate. “Princes don’t play.”

So Yosef learned very young that he was not meant to play.

There was not a lick of Modi in Yosef’s face. Sometimes this made Yosef angry. Sometimes it made him sad. He’d inherited his mother’s common brown hair and eyes. Though you wouldn’t know it by looking at her, since Kalissa had died her hair perpetually black.

There were no secrets in Yosef’s life. His mother and father might have been married but they were not in love. Yosef might have been their child, but they did not love him. Yosef was a prince, and the world belonged to him.

The secret door upset these truths.

Spiut mentions it during sparring practice.

“I’ve seen your father go in a secret room the other day, in the west wing.”

Yosef, wiping the sweat from his brow, barely has an ear for Spiut’s ramblings.

“The west wing is closed off.” He says vaguely. “You must have seen wrong.”

“I ‘aven’t seen wrong!” Spiut protests angrily. “I’ve seen an angel, is what ‘ave seen. Your father was talking to one – with raven black hair, and sea green eyes.” And then, quieter, under his breath- “He _kissed_ her.”

Yosef turns sharply at this. “Shut up, Spiut. You’re a dirty fucking liar.”

And Spiut smartly backs off, but Yosef still can’t help but think of the secret room.

-

Yosef goes at night when his father is off in Jotunheim.

Yosef tells himself he won’t find anything. What could he find? He knows everything there is to know like the back of his hand. He owns the world. What else is there left to surprise you, when you own the world?

The west wing is outdated compared to the other wings of the palace. There are cobwebs and splitting cracks running through the marble.

_Spiut found people living here?_ Yosef thinks dubiously. _Unlikely._

When Yosef reaches the corridor Spiut describes, there is only one door. The rest of the rooms are doorless. Yosef stares at the handle, and can’t help but let an insurmountable amount of dread form in his chest.

_It feels like, if I open this door, I will never be able to go back. The consequences will be irreparable._

Yosef stalls and stalls, until he suddenly feels silly for stalling in the first place. He twists the handle.

At first, Yosef’s eyes are caught by the clutter in the room. Maps stretched out all over the walls and books squeezed tightly together on a bookshelf with rugs of all different designs lain on top of each other haphazardly on the floor. Nothing at all like the empty white marble of his quarters. Then Yosef’s eyes move to the window and – there is a person. Stretched out like a cat soaking in the light of the moon.

The boy is close to Yosef’s age, maybe younger, and looks about thirteen. He’s pale and the moon illuminates this and his white blonde hair that seems to shine like a beacon. The boy is thin and decidedly colt like – like if Yosef decided to give chase he would most likely outrun him by miles. His lips seem almost obscenely pink in comparison to the paleness of him, and his eyes are a startling blue that make Yosef blink a few times.

The boy startles when Yosef enters, immediately standing up, and Yosef is struck, mesmerized.

“Who are you?” The boy asks suspiciously, his voice still that sweet tenor before puberty hits.

And Yosef thinks, dazedly –

_There really was an angel._

And somewhere else, someplace dark and deep and ugly, he thinks

_I want to tear his wings. I want to chain him to the ground with me. Don’t I already own the world? What’s an angel added to that?_

_Everything,_ Yosef will later find out.

**Everything.**

-

Somewhere in a pub in Asgard, two old men drink together.

“I heard King Modi’s got himself a whore. Black hair, green eyes. Same as his father.” One says.

His friend seems to find this funny. He laughs. He says

“Well, you know what they say.” He grins a toothless grin. “The sins of the father, are sins of the son, and so on so forth…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so now hopefully u understand the title of this work - sins of the father - basically about how history repeats itself.  
i find this ending to have light at the end of the tunnel.  
modi and atla will repeat loki and thors history. their offspring will repeat their history. loki's counterpart will always seemed doomed to be only a mistress, but as history repeats itself, loki's counterpart will also get sick of this and leave, and thor's counterpart will leave after her/him. maybe one generation will break the cycle, but it won't be modi/atla  
if your wondering about thor and loki -  
thor finds loki. loki wants to be found. in my mind, they're traveling the nine realms together, happy, finally content to be just themselves.
> 
> i think any other questions can be answered with a previous response i made to a comment -  
this is a story about imperfect love, and that is why there is no perfect solution.


End file.
